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FRANCIS    &    CO. 'S 
FOR  YOUNG  PERSONS  OF  VARIOUS  AGES. 


A  PICTURE  BOOK  WITHOUT  PICTURES, 
AND  OTHER  STORIES 

BY  HANS  CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN 


FRANCIS  &  CO/s  LITTLE  LIBRARY. 

A  Uniform  Series  of  Choice  Books  for   Young  People. 

Flowers  for  Children  :  by  L.  Maria  Child.     No.  1, 

for  Children  eight  or  nine  yeara  old. 

— — No.  2,  tor  Children  three  or  four  years  old. 

No.  3,  for  Children  elevenor  twelve  years  old. 

The  Favorite  Scholar,  Little  Chatterbox,  Perse- 

VBRANCB,  and  Other  Tales,  by  Mary  Hewitt,  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall, 

and  others. 
The  Robins  ;    or  Domestic    Life  among  the    Birds  : 

by  Mrs.  Trimmer.     Designed  for  the  Instruction  of  Children 

respecting  their  treatment  of  Animals. 
Kate  and  Lizzie;    or    Six  Months    out  or    School; 

by  Anne  W   Abbot. 
Facts  to  Correct  Fancies  ;  or  Shoi-t  Narratives  com- 
piled from  the  Memoirs  of  Remarkable  Women.    By  a  Mother. 
Turns  of  Fortune;  All  is  not  Gold  that  Glitters. 

&c. :  by  Mrs.  8.  C.  Hall. 
The  J'rivate    Purse;    Cleverness,  and  other  Tales: 

by  Mrs.  S.  U.  Hall. 
EussEL  and  Sidney  and  Chase  Loring  :  Tales  of  the 

American  Revolution :  by  Eliza  Leslie. 
Claudine;  or  Humility  the  Basis  oe  all  the  Vir- 

TDKS.    A  Swiss  Tale.    By  a  Mother:  author  of  "Always  Hap- 
py," "  True  Stories  from  History,"  &c. 
Stories  and  Poems  for  Children:  by  Mrs.  C.  Gilmau 
Classic    Tales:    designed    for    the    Instruction    and 

Amusement  of  Young  Persons.    By  the  author  of  "  American 

Popular  Lessons,"  &c.  &c. 
Holiday  Stories  :  containing  five  Moral  Tales. 
The    Little    Wreath    of    Stories    and    Poems    for 

Children  :  by  Caroline  Oilman. 
A  Christmas  Greeting  ;    Thirteen  New  Stories   from 

the  Danish  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen. 
A  Picture  Book  Without  Pictures  ;  and  other  Stories; 

by  Hans  Christian  Andersen.      Translated  by  Mary  Howitf 

with  a  Memoir  of  the  Author.  ' 

IN  preparation. 
The    History    of     an    Officer's    Widow    and    heh 

Voung  Family  :  by  Mrs.  Hofland. 
The  Clergyman's  Widow    and  her  Young    Family: 

by  the  same. 
The  Merchant's    Widow  and    her    Young   Family: 

by  the  same. 
The  Affectionate  Brothers  :  by  the  same. 
Always  Happy  !  or  Anecdotes  of  Felix  and  his  sister 

Serena.    By  a  Mother. 

And  other  Interesting  and  Useful  Books. 


EAl^TS  CHRISTIAN  AKDSRSEK, 

FruM]  a  P.iiiKiiis;  by  C.iil  ll;inniiun.. 


PICTURE-BOOK 

WITHOUT  PICTURES! 
S[na    ©tger    Stories, 

FP.OM  THE   DAiNlSH 
Of 

HANS   CHRISTIAN   ANDERSEN. 

TRANSLATEn    BY 

MARY    HOWITT.- 


NEW-YORK: 

C.  8.   FRANCIS    &   CO.,  252    BROADWAY. 

boston: 

J.    H.    FRANCIS,    128    VVASHISQTON    STREET. 

1848. 


Digitized  by  tiie  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2011  with  funding  from 

University  of  Nortii  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/picturebookwithoOOande 


CONTENTS. 

♦ 

FAOB 

Memoir  op  Hans  Christian  Andersen      *        -  7 

a  picture-book  without  pictures    -         •*         •  33 

My  Boots -        -  125 

Scenes  on  the  Danube        ....        -  133 

Pegasus  and  the  Post-Hqrses    -        .        -        -  143 

The  Emperor's  New  Clothes     ....  153 

The  Swineherd -  164 

The  Real  Princess      ......  173 


50118i5 


M  E  M  O  I R    OF 
HANS   CHRISTIAN  ANDERSEN. 

BY  MARY  HOWITT, 


MEMOIR. 


Whether  regarded  as  the  human  being  as- 
serting in  his  own  person  the  true  nobihty  of 
mind  and  moral  worth,  or  the  man  of  genius, 
whose  works  alone  have  raised  him  from  the 
lowest  poverty  and  obscurity,  to  be  an  honor- 
ed guest  with  kings  and  queens,  Hans  Chris- 
tian Andersen  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
men  of  his  day. 

Like  most  men  of  great  original  talent,  he 
is  emphatically  one  of  the  people  ;  and  writ- 
ing as  he  has  done,  principally  of  popular 
life,  he  describes  what  he  himself  has  suffered 
and  seen.  Poverty  or  hardship,  however, 
never  soured  his  mind ;  on  the  contrary, 
whatever  he  has  written  is  singularly  genial, 
and  abounds  with  the  most  kindly  and  uni- 
versal sympathy.  Human  life,  with  all  its 
9 


10 


MEMOIR    OF 


trials,  privations,  and  its  tears,  is  to  him  a  holy- 
thing-  ;  he  lays  bare  the  heart,  not  to  bring 
forth  hidden  and  revolting-  passions  or  crimes, 
but  to  show  how  lovely  it  is  in  its  simplicity 
and  truth :  how  touching  in  its  weaknesses 
and  its  short-comings  ;  how  much  it  is  to  be 
loved  and  pitied,  and  borne  and  striven  with. 
In  short,  this  great  writer,  with  all  the  ardor 
of  a  strong  poetical  nature,  and  with  great 
power  in  delineating  passion,  is  eminently 
Christian  in  spirit. 

It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  me  that  I  have 
been  the  means  of  making  the  principal 
works  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen  known 
through  my  translations,  to  English  readers  ; 
they  have  been  well  received  by  them,  and  I 
now  give  a  slight  memoir  of  their  author, 
drawn  from  the  True  Story  of  his  own  Life, 
sent  by  him  to  me  for  translation,  and  which 
has  lately  been  published. 

The  father  of  Hans  Christian  Andersen 
was  a  shoemaker  of  Odense.  When  scarcely 
twenty,  he  married  a  young  girl  about  as 
poor  as  himself  The  poverty  of  this  couple 
may  be  imagined  from  the  circumstance  that 
the  house  afforded  no  better  bedstead  than  a 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDKRSEN, 


11 


wooden  frame,  made  to  support  the  coffin  of 
some  count  in  the  neighborhood,  whose  body- 
lay  in  state  before  his  interment.  This  frame, 
covered  with  black  cloth,  and  which  the 
young  shoemaker  purchased  at  a  very  low 
price,  served  as  the  family  bedstead  many- 
years.  Upon  this  humble  bed  was  born,  on 
the  second  of  April,  1805,  Hans  Christian 
Andersen. 

The  father  of  Andersen  was  not  without 
education;  his  mother  was  the  kindest  of 
human  beings  ;  they  lived  on  the  best  terms 
with  each  other,  but  still  the  husband  was 
not  happy.  He  read  comedies  and  the  Ara- 
bian Tales,  and  made  a  puppet  theatre  for 
his  little  son,  and  often  on  Sundays  took  him 
out  with  him  into  the  woods  round  Odense, 
where  the  solitude  was  congenial  to  his  mind. 

Andersen's  grandmother  had  also  great 
influence  over  him,  and  to  her  he  was  greatly 
attached.  She  was  employed  in  taking  care 
of  a  garden  belonging  to  a  lunatic  asylum, 
and  here  he  spent  most  of  the  summer  after- 
noons of  his  early  childhood. 

Among  his  earliest  recollections  is  the  resi- 
dence of  the  Spaniards  in  Funen,  in  the  years 


12 


MEMOIR    OF 


1808  and  1809.  A  soldier  of  an  Asturian 
regiment  look  him  one  day  in  his  arms, 
danced  with  him  amid  tears  of  joy,  which  no 
doubt  were  called  forth  by  the  remembrance 
of  a  child  he  had  left  at  home,  and  pressed 
the  Madonna  to  his  lips,  which  occasioned 
great  trouble  to  his  pious  mother,  who  was  a 
Lutheran. 

In  Odense  at  that  time  many  old  festivities 
w^ere  still  in  use,  which  made  a  deep  impres- 
sion on  the  boy,  and  were  as  so  much  mate- 
rial laid  up  in  his  richly  poetical  mind  for 
after  use,  as  all  who  are  familiar  with  his 
works  must  be  well  aware.  His  father, 
among  other  works,  industriously  read  in  his 
Bible.  One  day  he  closed  it  with  these  words  : 
"Christ  became  a  man  like  unto  us,  but  a 
very  uncommon  man  ! "  at  which  his  wife 
burst  into  tears,  greatly  distressed  and  shock- 
ed at  what  she  called  "  blasphemy."  This 
made  a  deep  impression  on  the  boy,  and  he 
prayed  in  secret  for  the  soul  of  his  father. 
Another  day  his  father  said,  "  There  is  no 
other  devil  but  what  a  man  bears  in  his  ov^n 
lireast ! "  After  which,  finding  his  arm 
scratched  one  morning  when  he  awoke,  his 


HANS    CHRISTIAN   ANDERSEN.  13 

wife  said  it  was  a  punishment,  of  the  devil,  to 
teach  him  his  real  existence. 

The  unhappy  temper  of  the  father  increas- 
ed from  day  to  day ;  he  longed  to  go  forth 
into  the  world.  At  that  time  war  was  raging 
in  Germany.  Napoleon  was  his  hero,  and 
as  Denmark  had  now  allied  itself  to  France, 
he  enlisted  as  a  private  soldier  in  a  recruiting 
regiment,  hoping  that  some  time  or  other  he 
might  return  as  a  lieutenant.  The  neighbors, 
however,  thought  it  was  all  a  folly  to  let  him- 
self be  shot  for  no  purpose  at  all.  The  corps 
in  which  he  served  went  no  farther  than  Hol- 
stein ;  the  peace  succeeded,  and  the  poor  shoe- 
maker returned  to  his  trade,  only  chagrined 
to  have  seen  no  service,  nor  even  been  in  for- 
eign lands.  But  though  he  had  seen  no  ser- 
vice, his  health  had  suffered  ;  he  awoke  one 
morning  delirious,  and  talked  about  cam- 
paigns and  Napoleon.  Young  Andersen, 
then  nine  years  old,  was  sent  to  the  next  vil- 
lage to  ask  counsel  from  a  wise  woman. 

"  Will  my  poor  father  die  ?"  inquired  he, 
anxiously. 

"  If  thy  father  will  die,"  replied  she,  "  thou 
wilt  meet  his  ghost  on  thy  way  hoine." 


IA  MEMOIR    OF 

Terrified  almost  out  of  his  senses  lest  he 
should  meet  the  ghost,  he  set  out  on  his 
homeward  way,  and  reached  his  own  door 
without  any  such  apparition  presenting  itself, 
but  for  all  that,  his  father  died  on  the  third 
day. 

From  this  time  young  Andersen  was  left 
to  himself  The  whole  instruction  that  he 
ever  received  was  in  a  charity-school,  and 
consisted  of  reading,  writing,  and  arithmetic, 
but  of  the  two  last  he  knew  scarcely  any- 
thing. 

About  this  time  he  was  engaged  by  the 
widow  of  a  clergyman  in  Odense,  to  read 
aloud  to  herself  and  her  sister-in-law.  She 
was  the  widow  of  a  clergyman  who  had  writ- 
ten poems.  In  this  house  Andersen  first  heard 
the  appellation  of  poet ;  and  saw  with  what 
love  the  poetical  talent  of  the  deceased  pastor 
was  regarded.  This  sunk  deeply  into  his 
mind  ;  he  read  tragedies,  and  resolved  to  be- 
come a  poet,  as  this  good  man  had  been  be- 
fore him. 

He  wrote  a  tragedy,  therefore,  which  the 
two  ladies  praised  highly ;  it  was  handed 
about  in  manuscript,  and  people  laughed  at 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN.  15 

it  and  ridiculed  him  as  the  "play-writer." 
This  wounded  him  so  deeply,  that  he  passed 
one  whole  night  weeping,  and  was  only  pa- 
cified, or  rather,  silenced,  by  his  mother  threat- 
ening to  give  him  a  good  beating  for  his  folly. 
Spite,  however,  of  his  ill  success,  he  wrote 
again  and  again,  studying,  among  other  de- 
vices, German  and  French  words,  to  give 
dignity  to  his  dialogue.  Again  the  whole 
town  read  his  productions,  and  the  boys 
shouted  after  him  as  he  went,  "  Look  !  look  : 
there  goes  the  play-writer." 

One  day  he  took  to  his  schoolmaster,  as  a 
birthday  present,  a  garland,  with  which  he 
had  twisted  up  a  little  poem.  The  school- 
master was  angry  with  him  ;  he  saw  nothing 
but  folly  and  false  quantities  in  the  verses, 
and  thus  the  poor  lad  had  nothing  but  trouble 
and  tears. 

The  worldly  affairs  of  the  mother  grew 
worse  and  worse,  and  as  boys  of  his  age 
earned  money  in  a  manufactory  near,  it  was 
resolved  that  there  also  Hans  Christian 
should  be  sent.  His  old  grandmother  took 
him  to  the  manufactory,  and  shed  bitter  tears 
because  the  lot  of  the  boy  was  so  early  toil 


16  MEMOIR    OF 

and  sorrow.  The  workmen  io  the  factory 
were  principally  German,  and  discovering 
that  Andersen  had  a  fine  voice,  and  knew 
many  popular  songs,  they  made  him  sing  to 
them  while  the  other  boys  did  his  work.  He 
knew  himself  that  he  had  a  good  voice,  be- 
cause the  neighbors  always  listened  when  he 
sang  at  home,  and  once  a  whole  party  of  rich 
people  had  stopped  to  hear  him,  and  had 
praised  his  beautiful  voice.  Everybody  in 
the  manufactory  heard  him  with  equal  de- 
hght. 

"  I  can  act  comedy  as  well !"  said  the  poor 
boy  one  day,  encouraged  by  their  applause, 
and  began  to  recite  whole  scenes  from  the 
comedies  which  his  father  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  reading.  The  workmen  were  de- 
lighted, and  the  other  boys  were  made  to  do 
his  tasks  while  he  amused  them  all.  This 
smooth  life  of  comedy  acting  and  singing 
lasted  but  for  a  short  time,  and  he  returned 
home. 

"  The  boy  must  go  and  act  at  the  theatre  !" 
many  of  the  neighbors  said  to  his  mother ; 
but  as  she  knew  of  no  other  theatre  than  that 
of  the  strolling  players,  she  shook  her  head, 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN.  17 

and  resolved  rather  to  put  her  son  apprentice 
to  a  tailor. 

He  was  now  twelve,  and  had  nothing  to 
do  ;  he  devoured,  therefore,  the  contents  of 
every  book  which  came  in  his  way.  His 
favorite  reading  was  an  old  prose  translation 
of  Shakspere.  From  this,  with  little  figures 
which  he  made  of  pasteboard,  he  performed 
the  whole  of  King  Lear,  and  the  Merchant 
of  Venice. 

Andersen's  passion  for  reading,  and  his 
beautiful  voice,  had  in  the  meantime  drawn 
upon  him  the  attention  of  several  of  the 
higher  families  of  the  city,  who  introduced 
him  to  their  houses.  His  simple,  child-like 
behavior,  his  wonderful  memory,  and  his 
sweet  voice,  gave  to  him  a  peculiar  charm  ; 
people  talked  of  him,  and  he  soon  had  many 
friends  ;  among  others,  a  Colonel  Guldborg^ 
brother  to  the  well-known  poet  of  that  name, 
and  who  afterwards  introduced  him  to  Prince 
Christian  of  Denmark. 

About   this   time  his   mother   married    a 

second  time,  and  as  the  step-father  would  not 

spend  a  penny,  or  do  any  thing  for  her  son's 

education,  he  had  still  more  leisure.     He  had 

2 


18 


MEMOIR    OF 


no  playfelloAvs,  and  often  wandered  by  him- 
self to  the  neighboring  forest,  or  seated  himself 
at  home,  in  a  corner  of  the  house,  and  dressed 
up  little  dolls  for  his  theatre,  his  mother  in 
the  meantime  thinking  that,  as  he  was  des- 
tined for  a  tailor,  this  was  all  good  practice. 

At  length  the  time  came  when  he  was  to 
be  confirmed.  On  this  occasion  he  had  his 
first  pair  of  boots  ;  he  was  veiy  vain  of  them, 
and  that  all  the  world  might  see  them,  he 
pulled  them  up  over  his  trousers.  An  old 
sempstress  was  employed  to  make  him  a  con- 
firmation-suit out  of  his  deceased  fathers 
great  coat.  Never  before  had  he  been  possess- 
ed of  such  excellent  clothes  ;  the  very  thoughts 
of  them  disturbed  his  devotions  on  the  day  of 
consecration. 

It  had  been  determined  that  Andersen  Avas 
to  be  apprenticed  to  a  tailor  after  his  confir- 
mation, but  he  earnestly  besouglit  his  mother 
to  give  up  this  idea,  and  consent  to  his  going 
to  Copenhagen,  that  he  might  get  employ- 
ment at  the  theatre  there.  He  read  to  her 
the  lives  of  celebrated  men  who  had  been 
quite  as  poor  as  himself,  and  assured  her  that 
he  also  would  one  day  be  a  celebrated  man. 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    i*  .>fDERSEN.  19 

For  several  years  he  had  been  hoarding  up 
his  money ;  he  had  now  about  thirty  shiUings, 
Enghsh,  which  seemed  to  him  an  inexhausti- 
ble sum.  As  soon  as  his  mother  heard  of 
this  fund,  her  heart  inchned  towards  his 
wishes,  and  she  promised  to  consent  on  con- 
dition that  they  should  consult  a  wise  woman, 
and  that  his  going  or  staying  should  be  de- 
cided by  her  augury.  The  sibyl  was  fetched 
to  the  house,  and  after  she  had  read  the  cards, 
and  studied  the  coffee-grounds,  she  pronounc- 
ed these  words. 

"  Your  son  will  become  a  great  man.  The 
city  of  Odense  will  one  day  be  illuminated 
in  his  honor." 

A  prophecy  like  this  removed  all  doubts. 

"  Go,  in  God's  name  !"  said  his  mother,  and 
he  lost  no  time  in  preparing  for  his  great 
journey. 

Some  one  had  mentioned  to  him  a  certain 
female  dancer  at  the  Royal  Theatre  as  a 
person  of  great  influence  ;  he  obtained,  there- 
fore, from  a  gentleman  universally  esteemed 
in  Odense,  a  letter  of  introduction  to  this  lady ; 
and  with  this,  and  his  thirteen  rix-dollars,  he 
commenced  the  journey  on  which  depended 


20 


MEMOIR    OF 


his  whole  fate.  His  mother  accompanied 
him  to  the  city  gate,  and  there  his  good  old 
grandmother  met  him ;  she  kissed  him  with 
many  tears,  blessed  him,  and  he  never  saw 
her  more. 

It  was  not  until  he  had  crossed  the  Great 
Belt  that  he  felt  how  forlorn  he  was  in  the 
world;  he  stepped  aside  from  the  road,  fell 
on  his  knees,  and  besought  Clod  to  be  his 
friend.  He  rose  up  comforted,  and  walked 
on  through  towns  and  villages,  until,  on  Mon- 
day morning,  the  5th  of  September,  1819,  he 
saw  the  towers  of  Copenhagen ;  and  with  his 
httle  bundle  under  his  arm  he  entered  that 
great  city. 

On  the  day  after  his  arrival,  dressed  in  his 
confirmation-suit,  he  betook  himself,  with  his 
letter  of  introduction  in  his  hand,  to  the 
house  of  the  all-potential  dancer.  The  lady 
allowed  him  to  wait  a  long  time  on  the  steps 
of  her  house,  and  when  at  length  he  entered, 
his  awkward,  simple  behavior  and  appear- 
ance displeased  her ;  she  fancied  him  insane, 
more  particularly  as  the  gentleman  from 
whom  he  brought  the  letter  was  unknown  to 
her. 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN.  21 

He  next  went  to  the  director  of  the  the- 
atre, requesting  some  appointment. 

"You  are  too  thin  for  the  theatre,"  was 
the  answer  he  obtained. 

"Oh,"  repHed  poor  Andersen,  "only  ensure 
me  one  hundred  rix-doUars,  and  I  will  soon 
get  fat !" 

But  the  director  would  make  no  agreement 
of  this  kind,  and  then  informed  him  that 
they  engaged  none  at  the  theatre  but  people 
of  education.  This  settled  the  question  ;  he 
had  nothing  to  say  on  his  own  behalf,  and, 
dejected  in  spirit,  went  out  into  the  street. 
He  knew  no  human  creature  ;  he  thought  of 
death,  and  this  thought  turned  his  mind  to 
God. 

"When  everything  goes  adversely,"  said 
he,  "  then  God  will  help  me ;  it  is  written  so 
in  every  book  that  I  ever  read,  and  in  God  I 
will  put  my  trust ! " 

Days  and  weeks  went  on,  bringing  with 
them  nothing  but  disappointment  and  des- 
pair ;  his  money  was  all  gone,  and  for  some 
time  he  worked  with  a  joiner.  At  length, 
as,  with  a  heavy  heart,  he  was  walking  one 
day  along  the  crowded  streets  of  the  city,  it 


22 


MKMOIR    OF 


occurred  to  him  that  as  yet  noljody  had 
heard  his  fine  voice.  Full  of  this  thought, 
he  hastened  at  once  to  the  house  of  Professor 
Siboni,  where  a  large  party  happened  to  be 
at  dinner,  and  among  the  guests  Baggesen 
the  poet,  and  the  celebrated  composer,  Pio- 
fessor  Weyse.  He  knocked  at  the  door, 
which  was  opened  by  a  female  servant,  and 
to  her  he  related,  quite  open-heartcdly,  how 
forlorn  and  friendless  he  was,  and  how  great 
a  desire  he  had  to  be  engaged  at  the  theatre  ; 
the  young  Avoman  went  in  and  related  this 
to  the  company.  All  were  interested  in  the 
little  adventurer ;  he  was  ordered  in,  and  de- 
sired to  sing,  and  to  give  some  scenes  from 
Holberg.  One  of  these  scenes  bore  a  resem- 
blance to  his  own  melancholy  circumstances 
and  he  burst  into  tears.  The  company  ap- 
plauded him. 

"I  prophecy,"  said  Baggesen,  "that  thou 
wilt  turn  out  something  remarkable;  only 
don't  become  vain  when  the  pubhc  admires 
thee." 

Professor  Siboni  promised  immediately  that 
he  would  cultivate  Andersen's  voice,  and  that 
he  should   make  his   debut  at   the  Theatre 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN. 


23 


Royal.  He  had  a  good  friend  too  in  Profes- 
sor Weyse,  and  a  year  and  a  half  were  spent 
in  elementary  instruction.  But  a  new  mis- 
fortune now  befell  him  ;  he  lost  his  beautiful 
voice,  and  Siboni  counselled  him  to  put  him- 
self to  soii-ie  handicraft  trade.  He  once  more 
seemed  abandoned  to  a  hopeless  fate.  Cast- 
ing about  in  his  mind  who  might  possibly 
befriend  him,  he  bethought  himself  of  the  poet 
Guldborg,  whose  brother  the  colonel  had 
been  so  kind  to  him  in  Odense.  To  him  he 
went,  and  in  him  he  happily  found  a  friend ; 
although  poverty  still  pursued  him,  and  his 
sufferings,  which  no  one  knew,  almost  over- 
came him. 

He  wrote  a  rhymed  tragedy,  which  obtain- 
ed some  httle  praise  from  Oehlenschlager  and 
Ino-emann — ^but  no  dehut  was  permitted  him 
on  the  theatre.  He  wrote  a  second  and  third, 
but  the  theatre  would  not  accept  them. 
These  youthful  efforts  fell,  however,  into  the 
hand  of  a  powerful  and  good  man.  Confer- 
ence Counsellor  Collin,  who,  perceiving  the 
genius  that  slumbered  in  the  young  poet, 
went  immediately  to  the  king,  and  obtained 
permission  from  him  that  he  should  be  sent, 


24 


MEMOIR    OF 


at  Government  charg-es,  to  one  of  the  learned 
schools  in  the  provinces,  in  which,  however, 
he   suffered   immensely,   till   his    heart   was 
almost  broken   by   unkindness.     From    this 
school  he  went  to  colleg-e,  and  became  very 
soon  favorably  known  lo  the  public  by  true 
poetical  works.     Ingemann,  Oehlenschlager, 
and  others  then   obtained  for   him   a  royal 
stipend,    to   enable  him    to   travel;    and   he 
visited   Germany,  France,  Switzerland,  and 
Italy.     Italy,  and  the  poetical   character  of 
life  in  that  beautiful  country,  inspired  him  • 
and  he  wrote  the  "  Improvisatore,'"  one  of  the 
most  exquisite   works,  A\hether  for    truthful 
delineation  of  character,   or  pure  and  noble 
sentiment,   that    ever    was    penned.      This 
work  most  harmoniously  combines  the  warm 
coloring  and  intensity   of  Italian    life   with 
the   freshest   and    strong   simplicity   of    the 
north.     His  romance  of  "  O.  T."  followed ; 
this  is  a  true  picture  of  the  secluded,  sober 
life   of  the   north,   and  is    a   great   favorite 
there.     His   third  work,  "Only    a   Fiddler," 
is  remarkable  for  its  strongly  drawn  personal 
and   national   characteristics,   founded  upon 
his  own  experience   in  early  Hfe.     Perhaps 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN. 


25 


there  never  was  a  more  affecting  picture  of 
the  hopeless  attempts  of  a  genius  of  second- 
rate  order  to  combat  against  and  rise  above 
poverty  and  adverse  circumstances,  than  is 
given  in  the  hfe  of  poor  Christian,  who  dies 
at  last  '-only  a  fiddler." 

In  all  these  works  Andersen  has   draw^n 
from  his  ow^n  experience,  and  in  this  lies  their 
extraordinary  power.     There  is  a  child-like 
tenderness  and  simplicity  in  his  writings  ;  a 
sympathy  with  the  poor  and  the  struggling, 
and  an  elevation  and  purity  of  tone,  which 
have  something  absolutely  holy  about  them  ; 
it  is  the  inspiration  of  true  genius,  combined 
with   great   experience   of  life,    and  a  spirit 
baptized  with  the  tenderness  of  Christianity. 
This  is  it  which  is  the  secret  of  the  extreme 
charm  his  celebrated  stories  have  for  children. 
They  are  as  simple  and  as  touching  as  the  old 
Bible  narratives   of  Joseph  and  his  brethren, 
and  the  httle  lad  who  died  in  the  corn  field. 
We  wonder  not  at  their  being  the  most  pop- 
ular books  of  their  kind  in  Europe. 

It  has  been  my  happiness,  as  I  said  before, 
to  translate  his  three  principal  works,  his 
Picture  Book  without  Pictures,  and  several  of 


26  MEMOIR    OF 

lus  stories  for  children.  They  have  been 
likewise  translated  into  German,  and  soine 
of  them  into  Dutch,  and  even  Russian.  He 
speaks  nohl}"  of  this  circumstance  in  his  life. 
"  My  works,"  says  he,  "  seem  to  come  forth 
under  a  lucky  star,  they  fl}^  over  all  lands. 
There  is  something  elevating,  but  at  the  sam.e 
time  something  terrific  in  seeing  one's  thoughts 
spread  so  far,  and  among  so  many  people ; 
it  is  indeed  almost  a  fearful  thing  to  belong 
to  so  many.  The  noble  and  good  in  us  be- 
comes a  blessing,  but  the  bad,  one's  errors, 
shoot  forth  also  ;  and  involuntarily  the  prayer 
forces  itself  from  us — '  God  !  let  me  never 
write  down  a  word  of  which  I  shall  not  be 
able  to  give  an  account  to  thee  !'  a  peculiar 
feeling,  a  mixture  of  joy  and  anxiety,  fills  my 
heart  every  time  my  good  genius  conveys 
my  fictions  to  a  foieign  people." 

Of  Andersen's  present  life  w^e  need  only  say 
that  he  spends  a  great  deal  of  his  time  in 
traveling  ;  he  goes  from  land  to  land,  and 
from  court  to  court,  everywhere  an  honored 
guest,  and  enjoying  the  glorious  reward  of 
a  manly  struggle  against  adversity,  and  the 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDKRSKN.  27 

triumph  of  a  lofty  and  pure  genius  in  seeing 
its  claims  generously  acknowledged. 

Let  us  now  see  the  son  of  the  poor  shoe- 
maker of  Odense— the  friendless,  ill-clad,  al- 
most heart-broken  boy  of  Copenhagen — on 
one  of  those  occasions,  which  would  make  an 
era  in  the  life  of  any  other  literary  man,  but 
which  are  of  every  day  occurrence  in  his.  I 
will  quote  from  his  own  words. 

"  I  received  a  letter  from  the  ministry.  Count 
Rantzau  Breitenburg,  containing  an  invita- 
tion from  their  majesties  of  Denmark  to  join 
them  at  the  watering-place  of  Fohr ;  this 
island  lies  in  the  North  Sea,  on  the  coast  of 
Sleswick.  It  was  just  now  five  and-twenty 
years  since  I,  a  poor  lad,  traveled  alone  and 
helpless  to  Copenhagen.  Exactly  the  five-and 
twentieth  anniversary  would  be  celebrated  by 
my  being  with  my  king  and  qvieen.  Every- 
thing which  surrounded  me,  man  and  nature, 
reflected  themselves  imperishably  in  my  soul ; 
I  felt  myself,  as  it  were,  conducted  to  a  point 
from  which  I  could  look  forth  more  distinctly 
over  the  past,  with  all  the  good  fortune  and 
happiness  which  it  had  evolved  for  me. 

"  Wyck,  the  largest  town  of  Fohr,  in  which 


28  MEMOIR    OF 

are  the  baths,  is  built  like  a  Dutch  towTi, 
with  houses  one  story  high,  sloping  roofs, 
and  gables  turned  to  the  street.  The  number 
of  strangers  there,  and  the  presence  of  the 
Court,  gave  a  peculiar  animation  to  it.  The 
Danish  flag  was  seen  waving,  and  music  was 
heard  on  all  hands.  I  was  soon  established 
in  my  cjuarters,  and  was  invited  every  day  to 
dine  with  their  majesties  as  well  as  to  pass 
the  evening  in  their  circle.  On  several  eve- 
nings I  read  aloud  my  little  stories  to  them, 
and  nothing  could  be  more  gracious  and  kind 
than  they  were.  It  is  so  well  when  a  noble 
human  nature  will  reveal  itself,  where  other- 
wise only  the  king's  crown  and  the  purple 
mantle  might  be  discovered. 

"  I  sailed  in  the  train  of  their  majesties,  to 
the  largest  of  the  Halligs,  those  grassy  runes 
in  the  ocean,  which  bear  testimony  to  a 
sunken  country.  The  violence  of  the  sea  has 
changed  the  mainland  into  islands,  has  again 
riven  these,  and  buried  men  and  villages. 
Year  after  year  are  new  portions  rent  away 
and  in  half  a  century's  time  there  will  be  no- 
thing left  but  sea.  The  Halligs  are  now  low 
islets,  covered  with  a  dark  turf,  on  which  a  few 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN.  29 

flocks  graze.  When  the  sea  rises,  these  are 
driven  to  the  garrets  for  refuge,  and  the  waves 
roll  over  this  little  region,  which  lies  miles  dis- 
tant from  any  shore.  Oland,  which  we  visited^ 
contains  a  little  town ;  the  houses  stand 
closely  side  by  side,  as  if  in  their  sore  need 
they  had  huddled  together  ;  they  are  all  erect- 
ed on  a  platform,  and  have  little  windows  like 
the  cabin  of  a  ship.  There,  solitary  through 
half  the  year,  sit  the  wives  and  daughters 
spinning.  Yet  I  found  books  in  all  the 
houses  ;  the  people  read  and  work,  and  the 
sea  rises  round  the  houses,  which  lie  like  a 
wreck  on  the  ocean.  The  church-yard  is 
half  washed  away  ;  coffins  and  corpses  are 
frequently  exposed  to  view.  It  is  an  appalling 
sight,  and  yet  the  inhabitants  of  the  Halligs 
are  attached  to  tJieir  little  home,  and  fre- 
quently die  of  home-sickness  when  removed 
from  it. 

"We  found  only  one  man  upon  the  island, 
and  he  had  only  lately  arisen  from  a  sick- 
bed ;  the  others  were  out  on  long  voyages. 
We  were  received  by  women  and  girls  ;  they 
had  erected  before  the  church  a  trium- 
phal   arch   with    flowers,   which    they   had 


30  MEMOIR    OP 

fetched  from  Fohr,  but  it  was  so  small  and 
low,  that  one  was  obliged  to  go  romid  it ;  it 
nevertheless  showed  their  good  will.  The 
(iueen  was  deeply  affected  by  their  having 
cut  down  their  only  shrub,  a  rose-bush,  to  lay 
over  a  marshy  place  which  she  had  to  cross. 

"  On  our  return,  dinner  was  served  on  board 
the  royal  steamer,  and  afterwards  as  we  sail- 
ed in  a  glorious  sunset  through  this  archipe- 
lago, the  deck  of  the  vessel  was  changed  to  a 
dancing  hall :  servants  flew  hither  and  thith- 
er with  refreshments  ;  sailors  stood  upon  the 
paddle-boxes  and  took  soundings,  and  their 
deep  tones  might  be  heard  giving  the  depth 
of  the  water.  The  moon  rose  round  and 
large,  and  the  promontory  of  Amrom  assumed 
the  appearance  of  a  snow-covered  chain  of 
Alps." 

The  next  day  he  visited  the  wild  regions 
about  the  promontory,  but  our  space  will  not 
admit  of  our  giving  any  portions  of  wild  and 
grand  sea-landscape  which  he  here  describes. 
In  the  evening  he  returned  to  the  royal  din- 
ner-table. It  was  on  the  above  mentioned 
five-and-twentieth  anniversary,  on  tlie  5th  of 
September ;  he  says, 


HANS    CHRISTIAN    ANDERSEN.  31 

"The  whole  of  my  former  life  passed  in 
review  before  my  mind.  I  was  obliged  to 
summon  all  my  strength  to  prevent  myself 
bursting  into  tears.  There  are  moments  of 
gratitude,  in  which  we  feel,  as  it  were,  a  de- 
sire to  press  God  to  om'  hearts  !  How  deeply 
I  felt  at  this  time  my  own  nothingness,  and 
how  all,  all  had  come  from  him  !  After  din- 
ner the  king,  to  whom  Rantzau  had  told  how 
interesting  the  day  was  to  me,  wished  me 
happiness,  and  that  most  kindly.  He  wished 
me  happiness  in  that  which  I  had  endured 
and  won.  He  asked  me  about  my  early, 
strugo:Iing  life,  and  I  related  to  him   some 

DO  O  3 

traits  of  it. 

"  In  the  course  of  conversation  he  asked 
me  of  my  annual  income.     I  told  him. 

"  '  That  is  not  much,'  said  he. 

"  '  Cut  I  do  not  need  much,'  I  replied ; 
'  my  writings  furnish  something.' 

'• '  If  I  can  in  any  way  be  serviceable  to 
you,  come  to  me,'  said  the  king  in  conclusion. 

"  In  the  evening,  during  the  concert,  some 
of  my  friends  reproached  me  for  not  making 
use  of  my  opportunity. 

"•The  king,'  said  they,  'put  the  word? 
iiit.o  vour  mouth.' 


32  MEMOIR. 

"  '  I  could  not  have  done  more,'  said  I ;  '  if 
the  king  thought  I  required  an  addition  to 
my  income,  he  would  give  it  of  his  own  free 
will.' 

"  And  I  was  right ;  in  the  following  year 
the  king  increased  my  annual  stipend,  so  that 
with  this  and  my  writings  I  can  live  honor- 
ably  and  free  from  care. 

"  The  5th  of  September  was  to  me  a  festi- 
val day.  Even  the  German  visitors  at  the 
baths  honored  me  by  drinking  my  health  in 
the  pump-room. 

"  So  many  flattering  circumstances,  some 
people  argue,  may  spoil  a  man  and  make 
him  vain.  But  no,  they  do  not  spoil  him, 
they  make  him,  on  the  contrary,  better ;  they 
purify  his  mind,  and  he  thereby  feels  an  im- 
pulse, a  wish  to  deserve  all  that  he  enjoys." 

Such  are  truly  the  feelings  of  a  pure  and 
noble  nature.  Andersen  has  stood  the  test 
through  every  trial,  of  poverty  and  adversity  ; 
the  harder  trial  that  of  a  sun-bright  prosper- 
ity, is  now  proving  him,  and  so  far,  thank 
God,  the  sterling  nature  of  the  man  has  re- 
mained unspoiled. 


A  PICTURE-BOOK  WITHOUT  PICTURES. 


33 


It  is  wonderful!  When  my  heart  feels 
the  most  warmly,  and  my  emotions  are  the 
noblest,  it  is  as  if  my  hands  and  my  tongue 
were  tied  ;  I  cannot  describe,  I  cannot  ex- 
press my  own  inward  state  ;  and  yet  I  am  a 
painter  ;  my  eye  tells  me  so  ;  and  every  one 
who  has  seen  my  sketches  and  my  tablets  ac- 
knowledges it. 

I  am  a  poor  youth ;  I  hve  over  there  in  one 
of  the  narrowest  streets,  but  I  have  no  want 
of  light,  because  I  live  up  aloft,  with  a  view 
over  all  the  house-tops.  The  first  day  I 
came  into  the  city  it  seemed  to  me  so  confined 
and  lonesome  ;  instead  of  the  woods  and  the 
35 


36  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

green  breezy  heights,  I  had  only  the  grey 
chimneys  as  far  as  1  could  see.  I  did  not 
possess  one  friend  here  ;  not  a  single  face 
which  I  knew  saluted  me. 

One  evening,  very  much  depressed  in  mind, 
I  stood  at  my  window  ;  I  opened  it  and  look- 
ed out.  Nay,  how  glad  it  made  me  ;  I  saw 
a  face  which  I  knew  ;  a  round,  friendly  face, 
that  of  my  dearest  friend  in  heaven  ;  it  was 
the  Moon— the  dear  old  Moon,  the  .very  same, 
precisely  the  same,  as  when  she  peeped  at 
me  between  the  willow  trees  on  the  marshes. 
I  kissed  my  hand  to  her  ;  she  shone  right 
down  into  my  chamber,  and  promised  me, 
that  every  night  when  she  w^as  out  she  would 
take  a  peep  at  me.  And  she  has  honestly 
kept  her  word— pity  only  that  she  can  re- 
main for  so  short  a  time  ! 

Every  night  she  comes  she  tells  me  one 
thing  or  another  which  she  has  seen  either 
that  night  or  the  night  before.  "Make  a 
sketch,"  said  she,  on  her  first  visit,  "  of  what 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  67 

I  tell  thee,  and  thus  thou  shalt  make  a  really- 
beautiful  picture-book  !" 

This  I  have  done  ;  and  in  this  way  I  might 
give  a  new  Thousand  and  One  Nights  in 
pictures  :  but  that  would  be  too  much  ;  those 
which  I  have  given  have  not  been  selected, 
but  are  just  as  I  heard  them.  A  great,  ge- 
nial-hearted painter,  a  poet,  or  a  musician, 
may  make  more  of  them  if  he  will ;  that 
which  I  present  is  only  a  slight  outline  on 
paper,  and  mixed  up  with  my  own  thoughts, 
because  it  was  not  every  night  that  the  moon 
came ;  there  was  now  and  then  a  cloud  be- 
tween us. 


38  A    PICTURE-BOOK 


FIRST  EVENING. 

Last  night, — these  are  the  Moon's  own 
words, — I  ghded  through  the  clear  ah  of  In- 
dia ;  I  mirrored  myself  in  the  Ganges.  My 
beams  sought  to  penetrate  the  thick  fence 
which  the  old  plantains  had  woven,  and 
which  formed  itself  into  an  arch  as  firm  as 
the  shell  of  the  tortoise.  A  Hindoo  girl,  light 
as  the  gazelle,  beautiful  as  Eve,  came  forth 
from  the  thicket.  There  is  scarcely  anything 
so  airy  and  yet  so  affluent  in  the  luxuriance 
of  beauty,  as  the  daughter  of  India.  I  could 
see  her  thoughts  through  her  delicate  skin. 
The  thorny  lianas  tore  her  sandals  from  her 
feet,  but  she  stepped  rapidly  forward ;  the 
wild  beast  which  came  from  the  river,  where 
it  had  quenched  its  thirst,  sprang  past  her, 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  39 

for  the  girl  held  in  her  hand  a  burning  lamp. 
I  could  see  the  fresh  blood  in  her  fingers  as 
she  curved  them  into  a  shade  for  the  flame. 
She  approached  the  river  ;  placed  the  lamp 
on  the  stream ;  and  the  lamp  sailed  away. 
The  flame  flickered  as  if  it  would  go  out; 
but  still  it  burned,  and  the  girl's  dark,  flash- 
ing eyes  followed  it  with  her  whole  soul 
beaming  from  under  her  long  silken  eyelashes  ; 
she  knew  that  if  the  lamp  burned  as  long 
as  she  could  see  it,  then  her  beloved  was  alive ; 
but  if  it  went  out,  then  that  he  was  dead. 
The  lamp  burned  and  fluttered,  and  her  heart 
burned  and  fluttered  also ;  she  sank  on  her 
knee  and  breathed  a  prayer :  close  beside 
her,  in  the  grass,  lay  a  water-snake,  but  she 
thought  only  of  Brama  and  her  beloved.  "  He 
lives !"  exclaimed  she,  rejoicingly,  and  the 
mountains  repeated  her  words,  "  he  lives  !" 


40  A    PICTURE-BOOK 


SECOND  EVENING. 

It  was  last  evening, — said  the  Moon, — 
that  I  peeped  down  into  a  yard  inclosed 
by  houses.  A  hen  was  there  with  eleven 
chickens  ;  a  little  girl  was  playing  around 
them  ;  the  hen  set  up  a  cackling  cry,  she 
was  frightened,  and  spread  out  her  wings 
over  her  eleven  young  ones.  With  that,  out 
came  the  father  of  the  child  and  scolded  her. 
This  evening  (it  is  only  a  few  minutes  since,) 
the  moon  looked  down  again  into  that  yard. 
Everything  was  quite  still ;  presently,  how- 
ever, out  came  the  little  girl,  and  stole  very 
softly  to  the  hen-house,  lifted  the  latch,  and 
crept  in  to  the  hen  and  the  chickens.  The  hen 
and  chickens  set  up  a  loud  cry,  and  flew  here 
and  there,  and  the  little  girl  ran  after  them. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  41 

Again  the  father  came  out,  and  now  he  was 
very  angry  indeed,  and  scolded  her,  and 
pulled  her  out  of  the  hen-house  by  her  arm  ; 
she  hung  back  her  head,  and  there  were  large 
tears  in  her  blue  eyes. 

"  What  wast  thou  doing  here  ?"  asked  the 
father.  She  wept;  "  I  only  wanted,"  said  she, 
"  to  kiss  the  hen,  and  ask  her  to  forgive  me 
for  yesterday :  but  I  did  not  dare  to  tell 
thee." 

The  father  kissed  the  sweet  innocent  on 
her  forehead;  the  moonlight  fell  lovingly 
upon  her  eyes  and  mouth. 


g^2C«=^ 


42  A    PICTURE-BOOK 


THIRD  EVENING. 

In  a  narrow  street,  just  by, — said  the 
Moon, — which  is  so  very  confined  that  only 
just  for  one  minute  can  my  beams  fall  upon 
the  walls  of  the  houses — and  yet  at  this 
moment  I  can  look  abroad  and  see  the  world 
as  it  moves — into  this  narrow  street  I  looked 
and  saw  a  woman.  Sixteen  years  ago  and 
she  was  a  child ;  she  lived  away  in  the 
country,  and  played  in  the  old  pastor's  garden. 
The  hedges  of  roses  had  grown  out  of  bounds 
for  many  years ;  they  threw  their  wild  un- 
trimmed  branches  across  the  path,  and  sent 
up  long,  green  shoots  into  the  apple-trees ; 
there  was  only  a  rose  here  and  there,  and 
they  were  not  beautiful  as  the  queen  of  flow- 
ers  may  be,   although    the    color   and  the 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  43 

odor  were  there.  The  pastor's  Httle  daughter, 
however,  was  a  much  more  beautiful  rose  :  she 
sate  upon  her  httle  wooden  stool  under  the 
wild  untrimmed  hedge,  and  kissed  her  doll 
with  the  broken  face. 

Ten  years  later  I  saw  her  again  ;  I  saw 
her  in  the  splendid  dancing-hall ;  she  was 
the  lovely  bride  of  a  rich  tradesman,  and  I 
rejoiced  in  her  good  fortune.  I  visited  her  in 
the  still  evening.  Alas  !  my  rose  had  put 
forth  also  wild  shoots  like  the  roses  in  the 
pastor's  garden  ! 

Every-day  life  has  its  tragedy — this  evening 
I  saw  the  last  act.  Sick  to  death,  she  lay  in 
that  narrow  street,  upon  her  bed.  The  wick- 
ed landlord,  her  only  protector,  a  man  rude 
and  cold-hearted,  drew  back  the  curtain. 
"  Get  up  !"  said  he,  "  thy  cheeks  are  pale 
and  hollow ;  paint  thyself !  Get  money,  or  I 
will  turn  thee  out  into  the  streets  !  Get  up 
quickly  !" 

"  Death  is  at  my  heart !"  said  she,  "  oh  ! 
let  me  rest !" 

He  compelled  her  to  rise ;  painted  her 
cheeks,  twined  roses  in  her  hair,  placed  her 
at  the  window,  with  a  burning  light  beside 


44  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

her,  and  went  his  way.  I  glanced  at  her ; 
she  sate  immoveable  ;  her  hands  fell  upon  her 
lap.  The  window  blew  open,  so  that  one  of 
the  panes  of  glass  was  broken ;  but  she 
moved  not;  the  curtains  of  the  window  were 
blown  around  her  like  a  flame.  She  was 
dead.  From  that  open  window  the  dead 
preached  powerfully  ;  my  rose  of  the  pastor's 
garden ! 


"WITHOUT    PICTURES.  45 


FOURTH  EVENING. 

I  was  last  evening  at  a  German  play, — 
said  the  Moon  ; — it  was  in  a  little  city.  The 
theatre  was  a  stable ;  that  is  to  say,  the 
stalls  were  made  use  of  and  decorated  for 
boxes,  the  old  wood-work  was  covered  over 
with  figured  paper.  There  hung  from  the 
low  roof  a  little  iron  chandelier,  and  in  order 
that  it  might  rise  the  moment  the  prompter's 
bell  rang  (as  is  the  custom  in  large  theatres), 
it  was  now  covered  by  a  tub  turned  upside 
down.  The  bell  rang,  and  the  little  iron 
chandelier  made  a  leap  of  half  an  ell,  and  by 
that  token  people  knew  that  the  comedy  had 
begun.  A  young  prince  and  his  wife,  who 
were  traveling  through  the  town,  were  to  be 
present  at  the  performance,  and  therefore  it 


46  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

was  a  very  full  house,  excepting  that  under 
the  chandelier  it  was  like  a  little  crater.  Not 
a  single  soul  sate  there  ;  the  chandelier  kept 
dropping  its  oil— drop  !  drop  !  It  was  so  hot 
in  the  little  theatre  that  they  were  obliged  to 
open  all  the  holes  in  the  walls  to  let  in  fresh 
air,  and  through  all  these  peeped  in  lads  and 
lasses  from  the  outside,  although  the  police 
sate  by  and  drove  them  off  with  sticks. 

Close  by  the  orchestra,  people  saw  the 
young  princely  couple  sitting  in  two  old  arm- 
chairs, which  otherwise  would  have  been 
occupied  by  the  burgomaster  and  his  lady; 
as  it  was,  however,  they  sate  upon  wooden 
benches,  like  other  townsfolk.  "  One  may 
see  that  there  are  falcons  above  falcons  !"  was 
Madame's  silent  observation ;  and  after  this 
all  became  more  festal ;  the  chandelier  made 
a  leap  upwards,  the  people  began  counting  on 
their  fingers,  and  I — yes,  the  Moon — was 
present  during  the  whole  comedy. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  47 


FIFTH  EVENING. 

Yesterday, — said  the  Moon, — I  looked 
down  upon  busy  Paris.  I  gazed  into  the 
chambers  of  the  Louvre.  An  old  grandmother, 
wretchedly  clad,  and  who  belonged  to  the 
lower  class,  entered  the  large,  empty  throne- 
room,  accompanied  by  one  of  the  under  ser- 
vants of  the  palace.  It  had  cost  her  many 
small  sacrifices,  and  very  much  eloquence 
had  she  used  before  she  could  be  admitted 
here.  She  folded  her  thin  hands,  and  looked 
as  reverentially  around  her  as  if  she  had  been 
in  a  church. 

"  It  was  here  !"  she  said,  "  here  !"  and  she 
approached  the  throne  which  was  covered 
with  a  cloth  of  rich  velvet,  trimmed  with  gold. 
"  There  !"   said  she,  "  there  !"  and  she  bowed 


48  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

her  knee  and  kissed  the  crimson  velvet — I 
think  she  wept. 

"It  was  not  that  velvet,"  said  the  at- 
tendant, while  a  smile  played  round  his 
mouth. 

"  But  still  it  was  here !"  said  the  woman, 
"and  it  looked  in  this  room  just  so!" 

"Just  so,"  replied  he  ;  "  and  yet  it  was  not 
just  so  either :  the  windows  were  beaten  out ; 
the  doors  were  torn  off  their  hinges,  and 
there  was  blood  upon  the  floor !  You  can 
say,  however,  for  all  that,  that  your  son 
died  upon  the  throne  of  France  !" 

"Died!"  repeated  the  old  woman. 

No  more  was  said  ;  they  left  the  hall ; 
the  shades  of  evening  fell  deeper,  and  the 
moonlight  streamed  in  with  twofold  brifrht- 
ness  on  the  rich  velvet  of  the  throne  of 
France. 

I  will  tell  thee  a  story.  It  Avas  in  the 
revolution  of  July,  towards  evening,  on  the 
most  biilliant  day  of  victory,  when  every 
house  was  a  fortress,  every  window  a  redoubt, 
the  people  stormed  the  Tuilleries.  Even 
women  and  children  fought  among  the  com- 
batants ;    they    thronged    in    through    the 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  49 

chambers  aiid  halls  of  the  palace.  A  poor, 
half-grown  lad,  m  ragged  clothing,  fought 
desperately  among  the  elder  warriors ;  mor- 
tally wounded  at  length  by  the  thrusts  of 
many  bayonets,  he  sank  to  the  ground  ;  this 
took  place  in  the  throne-room.  They  wrap- 
ped the  velvet  about  his  wounds  ;  the  blood 
streamed  over  the  royal  purple.  It  was  a 
picture  !  The  magnificent  hall ;  the  combat- 
ing groups  ;  a  rent  banner  on  the  floor  ;  the 
tri-colored  flag  floating  above  the  bayonets; 
and  upon  the  throne  the  poor  lad,  with  his 
pale,  glorified  countenance,  his  eyes  turned 
towards  heaven ;  his  limbs  stiffening  in 
death ;  his  uncovered  breast ;  his  miserable 
garments,  and  around  these  the  rich  folds  of 
the  velvet,  embroidered  with  silver  lilies  ! 

As  that  boy  lay  in  the  cradle,  it  had  beeu 
foretold  that  he  should  die  on  the  throne  of 
France  !  His  mother's  heart  had  dreamed 
of  a  new  Napoleon.  The  moonbeams  have 
kissed  the  garland  of  everlasting  upon  his 
grave ;  her  beams  this  night  kissed  the  old 
grandmother's  forehead  as  she  dreamed  of 
this  picture — The  poor  lad  upon  the  throne 
of  France ! 
4 


50  A    PICTURE-BOOK- 


SIXTH  EVENING. 

I  have  been  in  Upsala, — said  the  Moon. 
She  looked  down  upon  tlie  great  castle,  with 
the  miserable  grass  of  its  trampled  fields.  She 
mirrored  herself  in  the  river  Fyris,  whilst  the 
steam-boat  drove  the  terrified  fish  among  tlie 
reeds.  Clouds  careered  along  the  moonlit 
sky,  and  cast  long  shadows  over  the  graves, 
as  they  are  called,  of  Odin.  Thor,  and  Freya. 
Names  are  carved  in  the  scanty  turf  upon 
the  heights.  Here  there  is  no  building-stone 
in  which  the  visitors  can  hew  their  names ; 
no  walled  fences  on  which  they  can  paint 
them  ;  they  cut  away,  therefore,  the  turf,  and 
the  naked  eartli  stares  forth  in  the  large 
letters  of  their  names,  which  look  like  a  huge 
aet  spread  over  the  hill.  An  immortality 
w^hich  a  fresh  growth  of  turf  desiroyi=. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  51 

A  man  stood  on  the  hill-top;  he  was  a 
j)oet.  He  emptied  a  silver-rimmed  mead- 
norn,  and  whispered  a  name,  which  he  bade 
the  wind  not  to  reveal ;  a  count's  coronet 
shone  above  it,  and  therefore  he  breathed  it 
low — the  moonbeams  smiled  upon  him,  for  a 
poet's  crown  shone  above  his  !  The  noble 
name  of  Eleonora  d'Este  is  united  to  Tasso's. 
I  know  where  the  rose  of  beauty  grows.  A 
cloud  passed  before  the  moon.  May  no 
cloud  pass  between  the  poet  and  his  rose  ! 


52  A    PICTURE-BOOK 


SEVEI^TH  EVENING. 

Down  by  the  seaside  there  extends  a 
wood  of  oaks  and  beeches,  fresh  and  fragrant, 
and  every  branch  is  visited  by  hundreds  of 
nightingales.  Close  beside  is  the  sea,  the 
eternally-moving  sea,  and  between  the  sea 
and  the  wood  runs  the  broad  high-road.  One 
carriage  after  another  rolled  past.  I  follow- 
ed them  not ;  my  eye  rested  mostly  on  one 
spot  where  was  a  barrow,  or  old  warrior's 
grave.  Brambles  and  white  thorns  giew  up 
from  among  the  stones.  There  is  the  poetry 
of  nature.  Dost  thou  believe  that  this  is  felt 
by  every  one  ?  Listen  to  what  occurred  there 
only  last  night. 

First  of  all,  two  rich  countrymen  drove 
past.     "  There  are  some  splendid  trees  there," 


WITHOUT    PICTURES. 


53 


said  one.  "  There  are  ten  loads  of  fire- wood 
in  each,"  repHed  the  other.  "  If  the  winter  be 
severe,  one  should  get  forty  rix  dollars  in 
spring  for  the  measure  !"  and  they  were  gone. 
"  The  road  is  abominable  here,"  said  an- 
other traveller.  "  It  is  those  cursed  trees,"  re- 
plied his  neighbor ;  "  there  is  no  circulation 
of  air  here,  excepting  from  the  sea :"  and  they 
advanced  onward. 

At  that  moment  the  diligence  came  by. 
All  were  asleep  at  the  most  beautiful  point : 
the  driver  blew  his  horn,  but  he  only  thought, 
"  I  blow  it  capitally,  and  here  it  sounds  well ; 
what  will  they  think  of  it?"  And  with  that 
the  diligence  was  gone. 

Next  came  by  two  young  country-fellows 
on  horseback.  The  champagne  of  youth  cir- 
culated through  their  blood  ;  a  smile  was  on 
their  lips  as  they  looked  towards  the  moss- 
grown  height,  and  the  dark  bushes.  "  I  went 
there  with  Christine  Miller,"  said  one  to  the 
other ;  and  they  were  gone. 

The  flowers  sent  forth  their  fragrance; 
every  breeze  slept ;  the  sea  looked  hke  a  por- 
tion of  heaven  spread  out  over  a  deep  valley  ; 
a  carriage  drove  along ;  there  were  six  per- 


64 


A    PICTURE-BOOK 


sons  in  it,  four  of  whom  were  asleep  ;  the 
fifth  was  thinking  of  his  new  summer-coat 
which  was  so  becoming  to  him  ;  the  sixth 
leaned  forward  to  the  driver,  and  asked 
whether  there  was  anything  remarkable 
about  that  heap  of  stones  :  "  No,"  said  the  fel- 
low, "  it's  only  a  heap  of  stones,  but  the  trees 
are  remarkable  ! "  "  Tell  me  about  them," 
said  the  other.  "  Yes,  they  are  very  remark- 
able ;  you  see,  in  winter,  when  the  snow  co- 
vers the  ground,  and  everything,  as  it  were, 
goes  out  in  a  twinkling,  then  those  trees  serve 
me  as  a  landmark  by  which  I  can  guide  my- 
self, and  not  drive  into  the  sea ;  they  are, 
therefore,  you  see,  very  remarkable," — and  by 
this  time  the  carriage  had  passed  the  trees. 

A  painter  now  came  up  ;  his  eyes  flashed  ; 
he  said  not  a  word,  he  whistled,  and  the 
nightingales  sang,  one  louder  than  another; 
'^  hold  your  tongues  !"  exclaimed  he,  and  noted 
down  with  accuracy  the  colors  and  tints  of  the 
trees;  "blue,  black,  dark-brown."  It  would 
be  a  beautiful  painting  !  He  made  a  sketch, 
as  hints  for  his  intended  picture,  and  all  the 
time  he  whistled  a  march  of  Rossini's. 

The  last  who  came  by  was  a  poor  girl ; 


WITHOUT    PICTURES. 


55 


she  sate  down  to  rest  herself  upon  the  old 
waiiior's  grave,  and  put  her  bundle  beside 
her.  Her  lovel)^,  pale  face  inclined  itself  to- 
wards the  wood  as  she  sate  listening-;  her 
eyes  flashed  as  she  looked  heaven-ward  across 
the  sea;  her  hands  folded  themselves,  and 
she  murmured  the  Lord's  Prayer.  She  did 
not  understand  the  emotions  which  penetrated 
her  soul ;  but,  nevertheless,  in  future  years, 
this  moment,  in  which  she  was  surrounded 
by  nature,  will  return  to  her  much  more 
beautifully,  nay,  will  be  fixed  more  faithfiilly 
in  her  memory,  than  on  the  tablets  of  the 
painter,  though  he  noted  down  every  shade 
of  color.  She  went  forward,  and  the  moon- 
beams lighted  her  path,  until  daylight  kissed 
her  forehead  ! 


56  A    PICTURE-BOOK 


EIGHTH  EVENING. 

There  were  thick  clouds  over  the  sky ; 
the  Moon  was  not  visible ;  I  stood  in  twofold 
solitude  in  my  little  room,  and  looked  out 
into  the  night,  which  should  have  been  illu- 
minated by  her  beams.  My  thoughts  fled 
far  away,  up  to  the  great  friend  who  told  me 
stories  so  beautifully  every  evening,  and  show- 
ed me  pictures.  Yes,  what  has  not  she  seen  ! 
She  looked  down  upon  the  waters  of  the 
deluge,  and  smiled  on  the  ark  as  she  now 
smiles  upon  me,  and  brought  consolation  to 
a  new  world  which  should  again  bloom 
forth.  When  the  children  of  Israel  stood 
weeping  by  the  rivers  of  Babylon,  she  look- 
ed mournfully  down  upon  the  willows  where 
their  harps  hung.     When  Romeo  ascended 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  57 

to  the  balcony,  and  the  kiss  of  love  went  like 
a  cherub's  thought  from  earth,  the  round 
Moon  stood  in  the  transparent  atmosphere, 
half  concealed  amid  the  dark  cypresses.  She 
saw  the  hero  on  St.  Helena,  when  from  his 
solitary  rock  he  looked  out  over  the  ocean  of 
the  world,  whilst  deep  thoughts  were  at  work 
in  his  breast.  Yes,  what  could  not  the  Moon 
relate  !  The  life  of  the  world  is  a  history  for 
her.  This  evening  I  see  thee  not,  old  friend ! 
I  can  paint  no  picture  in  remembrance  of  thy 
visit ! — and  as  I  dreamingly  looked  up  into 
the  clouds,  light  shone  forth  ;  it  was  a  moon- 
beam, but  it  is  gone  again  ;  dark  clouds  float 
past ;  but  that  ray  was  a  salutation,  a  friend- 
ly evening  salutation  from  the  Moon. 


58  A    PICTURE-BOOK 


NINTH  EVENING. 

Again  the  air  is  clear ;  I  had  again  mate- 
rial for  a  sketch ;  listen  to  that  which  I 
learned  from  the  Moon. 

The  birds  of  the  polar  region  flew  on- 
ward, and  the  whale  swam  toAvards  the 
eastern  coast  of  Greenland.  Rocks  covered 
with  ice  and  clouds  shut  in  a  valley  in  which 
the  bramble  and  whortleberry  were  in  full 
bloom.  The  fragrant  lichen  difl^used  its  odor  ; 
the  Moon  shone  faintly ;  its  crescent  was  pale 
as  the  leaf  of  the  water-lily,  which,  torn  from 
its  stalk,  has  floated  for  weeks  upon  the  water. 
The  northern-lights  burned  brightly ;  their 
circle  was  broad,  and  rays  went  upwards 
from  them  like  whirling  pillars  of  fire,  as- 
cending  through    the   whole   sphere   of  the 


"WITHOUT    PICTURES.  59 

heavens,  in  colors  of  green  and  crimson. 
The  inhabitants  of  the  valley  assembled  for 
dance  and  mirth,  but  they  looked  not  with 
admiring  eyes  at  the  magnificent  spectacle 
which  was  familiar  to  them.  "  Let  the  dead 
play  at  ball  with  the  heads  of  the  walrus  !" 
thought  they,  according  to  their  belief,  and 
occupied  themselves  only  with  the  dance  and 
the  song.  In  the  middle  of  the  circle,  wrap- 
ped in  fur,  stood  a  Greenlander  with  his 
hand-drum,  and  accompanied  himself  as  he 
sung  of  seal-hunting,  and  the  people  answer- 
ed in  chorus  with  an  "  Eia !  eia  !  a  !"  and 
skipped  round  and  round  in  their  white  furs 
like  so  many  bears  dancing.  With  this,  trial 
and  judgment  began.  They  who  were  ad- 
versaries came  forward  ;  the  plaintiff  impro- 
vised in  a  bold  and  sarcastic  manner  the 
crime  of  his  opponent,  and  all  the  while 
the  dance  went  on  to  the  sound  of  the  drum  ; 
the  defendant  replied  in  the  same  manner ; 
but  the  assembly  laughed  and  passed  sen- 
tence upon  him  in  the  meantime.  A  loud 
noise  was  now  heard  from  the  mountains : 
the  icy  cliffs  were  cleft  asunder,  and  the  huge 
tumblingr  masses  were  dashed  to  atoms  in 


60 


A    PICTURE-BOOK 


their  fall.     That  was  a  beautiful  Greenl-  id 
summer-night. 

At  the  distance  of  a  hundred  paces,  there 
lay   a   sick    man    within   an   open   tent   of 
skins  ;  there  was  life  still  in  his  veins,  but  for 
all  that  he  must  die,  because  he  himself  be- 
lieved it,  and  the  people  all  around  him  believed 
it  too.    His  wife,  therefore,  had  sewn  his  cloak 
of  skin  tightly  around  him,  that  she  might 
not  be  obliged  to  touch  the  dead  ;  and  she 
asked  him — "  Wilt  thou  be  buried  upon   the 
mountains   in    the    eternal    snow?      I   will 
decorate  the  place   with   thy  boat  and  thy 
arrows.     The  spirits  of  the  mist  shall  dance 
away  over   it!     Or  wouldst  thou  rather  be 
sunk  in  the  sea?"     "In  the  sea!"  whisper- 
ed he,  and  nodded  with  a  melancholy  smile. 
"  There  thou  wilt  have  a  beautiful  summer- 
tent,"  said  the  wife  ;  "  there  will  gambol  about 
thee  thousands  of  seals ;  there  will  the  walrus 
sleep  at  thy  feet,  and   the   hunting  will  be 
certain   and   merry!"     The   children,    amid 
loud  bowlings,  tore   down   the   outstretched 
skin  from  the  window,  that  the  dying  man 
might  be  borne  out  to  the  sea — the  swelling 
sea,  which  gave  him  food  during  his  lifetime, 
and  now  rest  in  death. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  61 

His  funeral  monument  is  the  floating 
mountain  of  ice,  which  increases  night  and 
day.  The  seals  slumber  upon  the  icy  blocks, 
and  the  birds  of  the  tempest  whirl  about  it. 


62 


A    PICTURE-BOOK 


TENTH  EVENING. 

I  knew  an  old  maid,  —  said  the  Moon, 
she  wore  every  winter  yellow  satin  trim- 
med with  fur ;  it  was  always  new ;  it  was 
always  her  unvarying  fashion ;  she  wore 
every  summer  the  same  straw  bonnet,  and,  I 
fancy,  the  very  same  blue-grey  gown.  She 
never  went  anywhere  but  to  one  old  female 
friend  of  hers  who  lived  on  the  other  side  the 
street ; — during  the  last  year,  however,  she 
did  not  even  go  there — because  her  old  friend 
was  dead.  All  solitarily  sate  my  old  maid 
working  at  her  window,  in  which,  through 
the  whole  summer,  there  stood  beautiful 
floweis,  and  in  the  winter  lovely  cresses, 
grown  on  a  little  hillock  of  felt.  During  the 
last    month,    however,    she    no   longer   sate 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  63 

at  her  window;  but  I  knew  that  she  was 
still  alive,  because  I  had  not  seen  her  set 
out  on  that  long  journey  of  which  she  and 
her  friend  had  so  often  talked.  "Yes,"  she 
had  said,  "  when  I  shall  die,  I  shall  have  to 
take  a  longer  journey  than  I  ever  took 
through  my  whole  life ;  the  family  burial- 
place  lies  above  twenty  miles  from  here ; 
thither  must  I  be  borne,  and  there  shall  I 
sleep  with  the  rest  of  my  kin." 

Last  night  a  carriage  drew  up  at  her 
door ;  they  carried  out  a  coffin,  and  by  that  I 
knew  that  she  was  dead ;  they  laid  straw 
around  the  coffin  and  drove  away.  There 
slept  the  quiet  old  maid,  who  for  the  last 
j'^ear  had  never  been  oat  of  her  house ;  and 
the  carriage  rattled  along  the  streets  and  out 
of  the  city,  as  if  it  had  been  on  a  journey  of 
pleasure.  Upon  the  high  road  it  went  on  yet 
faster  ;  the  fellow  who  drove  looked  over  his 
shoulder  several  times  ;  I  fancy  that  he  was 
afraid  of  seeing  her  sitting  in  her  yellow  satin 
upon  the  coffin  behind  him ;  he  therefore 
urged  on  the  liorses  thoughtlessly,  holding 
them  in  so  tightly  that  they  foamed  at  the 
mouth  :  they  were  young  and  fnll  of  mettle  ; 


64  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

a  hare  ran  across  the  road,  and  off  they  set 
at  full  speed.  The  quiet  old  maid,  who 
from  one  year's  end  to  another  had  moved 
only  slowly  in  a  narrow  circle,  now  that  she 
was  dead,  drove  over  stock  and  stone  along 
the  open  high-road.  The  coffin,  which  was 
wrapped  in  matting,  was  shook  off,  and  now 
lay  upon  the  road,  whilst  horses,  driver,  and 
carriage,  sped  onward  in  a  wild  career. 

The  lark  which  flew  upward  singing 
from  the  meadow,  warbled  its  morning  song 
above  the  coffin ;  it  then  descended  and 
alighted  upon  it,  pecked  at  the  matting  with 
its  beak,  as  if  it  were  rending  to  pieces  some 
strange  insect. 

The  lark  rose  upward  again,  singing  in 
the  clear  ether,  and  I  withdrew  behind  the 
rosy  clouds  of  morning. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  65 


ELEVENTH  EVENING. 

I  will  give  thee  a  picture  of  Pompeiij — 
said  the  Moon.  I  have  been  in  the 
suburbs,  the  Street  of  Tombs,  as  it  is  called, 
where  once  the  rejoicing  youths,  with  roses 
around  their  brows,  danced  with  the  lovely 
sisters  of  Lais.  Now  the  silence  of  death 
reigns  here  ;  German  soldiers  in  the  pay  of 
Naples  keep  guard  here,  and  play  at  cards 
and  dice.  A  crowd  of  foreigners,  from  the 
other  side  of  the  mountains,  wandered  into 
the  city,  accompanied  by  the  guard.  They 
wished  to  see  this  city,  arisen  from  the  grave, 
by  the  full  clear  light  of  the  Moon  ;  and  I 
showed  to  them  the  tracks  of  the  chariot- 
wheels  in  the  streets  paved  with  broad  slabs 
of  lava  5  I  showed  to  them  the  names  upon 
5 


G6  A    PICTURE-BOOiC 

the  doors  and  the  signs  which  still  remairl 
suspended  from  the  shop-fronts  ;  they  looked 
into  the  basin  of  the  fountains  ornamented 
with  shells  and  conches ;  but  no  stream  of 
water  leaped  upwards ;  no  song  resounded 
from  the  richly  painted  ch  ambers,  where 
dogs  of  bronze  guarded  the  doors.  It  was 
the  city  of  the  dead ;  Yesuvius  alone  still 
thundered  his  eternal  hymn. 

We  went  to  the  temple  of  Yenus,  which 
is  built  of  dazzling  white  marble,  with  broad 
steps  ascending  to  its  high  altar,  and  a  ver- 
dant weeping-willow  growing  between  its 
columns.  The  air  was  exquisitely  transpa- 
rent and  blue ;  and  in  the  back-ground 
towered  Yesuvius,  black  as  night :  fires 
ascended  from  the  crater  of  the  mountain 
like  the  stem  of  a  pine-tree  ;  the  illumined 
cloud  of  smoke  hung  suspended  in  the  still- 
ness of  night,  like  the  pine-tree's  crown,  but 
red  as  blood.  Among  the  strangers  there, 
was  a  singer,  a  true  and  noble  being,  to  whom 
I  had  seen  homage  paid  in  the  greatest  cities 
of  Europe.  When  the  party  arrived  at  the 
amphitheatre,  they  all  seated  themselves  upon 
the  marble  steps,  and  again,  as  in  former 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  67 

tenturies,  human  beings  occupied  a  portion 
of  that  space.  The  scene  was  now  the  same 
as  in  those  former  times  ;  the  walls  of  the 
theatre,  and  the  two  arches  in  the  back- 
ground, through  which  might  be  seen  the 
same  decoration  as  then— Nature  itself— 
the  momitains  between  Sorento  and  Amalfi. 
The  singer,  for  fun,  threw  herself  back  into 
those  ancient  times,  and  sung ;  the  scene 
inspired  her ;  she  reminded  the  listener  of  the 
wild  horse  of  Arabia,  when  it  snorts  and 
careers  away,  with  its  mane  lifted  by  the 
wind;  there  was  the  same  ease,  the  same 
security ;  she  brought  to  mind  the  agonized 
mother  at  the  cross  of  Golgotha  ;  there  was 
the  same  heartfelt,  deep  sorrow.  Once  more 
resounded  around  her,  as  had  resounded 
thousands  of  years  before,  the  plaudits  and 
acclamations  of  delight.  "  Happy  !  heavenly 
gifted  one !"  exclaimed  they  all.  Three 
minutes  after  and  the  scene  was  changed ; 
every  one  had  departed  ;  no  tone  was  heard 
any  longer ;  the  whole  party  was  gone  ;  but 
the  ruins  still  stood  unchanged,  as  they  will 
stand  for  centuries,  and  no  one  knows  of  the 


68  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

applause  of  the  moment — of  the  beautiful 
smger — of  her  tones  and  her  smile.  All  is 
past  and  forgotten ;  even  to  me  is  this 
hour  a  perished  memory. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  69 


TWELFTH  EVENING. 

I  peeped  in  at  a  critic's  window, — said  the 
Moon, — in  a  city  of  Germany.  The  room 
was  filled  with  excellent  furniture,  books,  and 
a  chaos  of  papers ;  several  young  men  were 
sitting  there ;  the  critic  himself  stood  at  his 
desk ;  two  small  books,  both  by  young 
authors,  were  about  to  be  reviewed.  "  One 
of  these,"  said  he,  "  has  been  sent  to  me  ;  I 
have  not  read  it  though — ^but  it  is  beautifully 
got  up ;  what  say  you  of  its  contents  ?" 

"  O,"  said  one  of  the  young  men,  who  was 
himself  a  poet,  "  there  is  a  deal  that  is  good 
in  it ;  very  little  to  expunge ;  but,  he  is  a 
young  man,  and  the  verses  might  be  better  ! 
There  is  a  healthy  tone  in  the  thoughts — 
but  they  are,  after  all,  such  thoughts  as  every- 


70  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

body  has ! — but  as  to  that,  where  does  one 
find  anything  new?  You  may  very  well 
praise  him,  but  I  never  believe  that  he  will 
turn  out  anything  of  a  poet.  He  has  read  a 
deal,  however ;  is  an  extraordinary  orientalist, 
and  has  sound  judgment.  He  it  was  who 
wrote  that  beautiful  critique  of  my  Fan- 
cies of  Do7nestic  Life.  One  ought  to  be 
gentle  towards  a  young  man." 

"  But  he  is  a  thorough  ass  !'  said  another 
gentleman  in  the  room  ;  "  nothing  worse  in 
poetry  than  mediocrity,  and  he  does  not  get 
above  that !" 

"  Poor  fellow,"  said  a  third,  '•  and  his  aunt 
makes  herself  so  happy  about  him.  She  it 
was,  Mr.  Critic,  who  obtained  so  many  sub- 
scribers' names  to  your  last  translation." 

"  The  good  woman  !  yes,  I  liave  given  a 
short  notice  of  the  book.  Unmistakeable  ta- 
lent !  a  welcome  gift !  a  flower  out  of  the 
garden  of  poesy ;  beautifully  got  out,  and  so 
on.  But  the  other  book — ^he  shall  catch  it !  I 
had  to  buy  it. — I  hear  it  is  praised ;  he  has 
genius,  don't  you  think?" 

"  That  is  the  general  opinion,"  said  the 
poet,  "  but  there  is  something  wild  about  it." 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  71 

f'  It  will  do  him  good  to  find  fault  and  cut 
him  up  a  little,  else  he  will  be  getting  too  good 
an  opinion  of  himself !" 

•'  But  that  is  unreasonable,"  interrupted  a 
fourth  ;  "  don't  let  us  dwell  too  much  on  tri- 
fling faults,  but  rejoice  in  the  good— and  there 
is  much  here— though  he  thrusts  in  good  and 
bad  altogether." 

"  Unmistakeable  talent !"  wrote  down  the 
critic  ;  "  the  usual  examples  of  caielessness. 
That  he  also  can  write  unlucky  verse,  may- 
be seen  at  page  five-and- twenty,  where  two 
hiatuses  occur  :  the  study  of  the  ancients  to 
be  recommended,  and  so  on." 

I  went  away,  said  the  Moon,— and  peep- 
ed through  the  window  into  the  aunt's  house 
where  sate  our  honored  poet,  the  tame  one,  the 
worshipped  of  all  the  guests,  and  was  happy. 
"  I  sought  out  the  other  poet,  the  wild  one, 
who  also  was  in  a  great  party  of  one  of  his 
patrons,  where  they  talked  about  the  other 
poet's  book.  "  I  shall  also  read  yours  !"  said 
Mecænas,  "  but,  honestly  speaking,  you  know 
I  never  say  to  you  what  I  do  not  mean  ;  I  do 
not  expect  great  things  from  it.  You  are  too 
wild  for  me!  too  fantastic — but  I  apkjiiQW- 


72  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

ledge  that  as  a  man  you  are  highly  respecta- 
ble!" 

A  young  girl  who  sat  in  a  comer  read  in 
a  book : — 

To  the  dust  goes  the  poet's  glory, 
And  common-place  to  fame ! — 

That  is  the  trite  old  story, 
And  'twill  ever  be  the  same  I 


■WITHOUT    PICTURES.  73 


THIRTEENTH   EVENING. 

The  Moon  told  me  as  follows : — There 
lie  tAvo  peasants'  cottages  by  the  road  through 
the  wood.  The  doors  are  low,  and  the  win- 
dows are  irregular,  but  all  around  them  grow 
buckthorn  and  barberries  ;  the  roof  is  mossy 
and  grown  over  with  yellow-flowered  stone- 
croj)  and  houseleek ;  nothing  but  cabbages 
and  potatoes  grow  in  the  little  garden,  but 
there  grows  in  the  hedge  an  elder-tree,  and 
under  this  sate  a  little  girl ;  and  there  she 
sate  with  her  brown  eyes  riveted  upon  an  old 
oak  tree  between  the  houses.  This  tree  has 
a  tall  and  decayed  hole,  the  top  of  it  is  sawn 
off,  and  there  the  stork  has  built  his  nest ; 
there  he  stood  and  clattered  with  his  beak. 


74  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

A  little  boy  came  out  of  the  cottage  and 
placed  himself  by  the  little  girl's  side  ;  they 
were  brother  and  sister. 

"  What  are  you  looking  at  ?  "  cried  he. 

"  I  am  looking  at  the  stork,"  she  replied ; 
"  the  neighbor  told  me  that  this  evening  the 
stork  will  bring  us  either  a  little  brother  ov 
sister  ;  and  so  now  I  will  stand  and  watch 
when  they  come." 

"  The  storks  do  not  bring  anything,"  said 
the  boy.  "  The  neighbor's  wife  told  me  the 
same  thing  ;  but  she  laughed  while  she  said 
it,  and  so  I  asked  her  if  she  durst  say  as  sure 
as  heaven,  to  it,  but  she  dared  not,  and  there- 
fore I  know  that  the  story  about  the  stork  is 
only  what  they  tell  us  children." 

"  Oh,  really  ! "  said  the  little  girl. 

"  And  I'll  tell  thee  what,"  said  the  boy ; 
"  It  is  our  Lord  himself  that  brings  little  ba- 
bies ;  he  has  them  under  his  coat ;  but  no- 
body can  see  our  Lord  now,  and  therefore  we 
do  not  see  him  when  he  comes." 

At  that  same  moment  the  twigs  of  the 
elder-tree  were  moved ;  the  children  folded 
their  hands  and  looked  one  at  the  other,  for 
they  thought  that  it  was  our  Lord  passing 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  75 

along  with  the  Uttle  ones.  They  stood  side 
by  side,  and  took  hold  of  each  other's  hand. 

The  house-door  opened,  and  out  came  the 
neighbor. 

"  Come  in  now,"  said  she,  "  and  see  what 
the  stork  has  brought ;  he  has  brought  a  lit- 
tle brother  !" 

The  children  nodded  their  heads  ;  they 
knew  very  well  that  the  little  brother  was 
come. 


76  A    PICTURE-BOOK 


FOURTEENTH  EVENING. 

I  passed  over  Luneburg  Heath, — said  the 
Moon, — a  sohtary  house  stood  by  the  road- 
side ;  some  leafless  trees  grew  beside  it,  and 
among  these  sung  a  nightingale  which  had 
lost  its  way.  In  the  severity  of  the  night  it 
must  perish ;  that  was  its  song  of  death 
which  I  heard.  With  the  early  twilight 
there  came  along  the  road  a  company  of  em- 
igrant peasants,  who  were  on  their  way  to 
Bremen  or  Hamburgh,  to  take  ship  for  Amer- 
ica, where  happiness — the  so  much  dreamed- 
of  happiness — they  expected  should  spring 
up  for  them.  The  women  carried  their 
youngest  children  upon  their  backs,  the  older 
ones  sprang  along  by  their  side  ;  a  poor  mis- 
erable horse  dragged  a  car,  on  which  were  a 


WITHOUT    PICTURES. 


77 


few  articles  of  household  furniture.  The  cold 
wind  blew  ;  the  little  girl  clung  closer  to  her 
mother,  who  looked  up  to  my  round  waning 
face  and  thought  upon  her  bitter  want. 

Her  thoughts  were  those  of  the  whole 
company,  and  therefore  the  red  glimmering 
of  daylight  was  like  the  evangile  of  the  sun 
of  prosperity  which  should  again  rise.  They 
heard  the  song  of  the  dying  nightingale  ;  it 
was  to  them  no  false  prophet,  but  a  foreteller 
of  happiness.  The  wind  whistled,  but  they 
understood  not  the  song;  "Sail  securely 
across  the  sea  !  thou  hast  paid  for  the  long 
voyage  with  all  that  thou  art  possessed  of; 
poor  and  helpless  shalt  thou  set  foot  on 
thy  land  of  Canaan.  Thou  mayst  sell  thy- 
self, thy  wife,  and  thy  child,  yet  you  shall 
none  of  you  suffer  long.  Behind  the  broad 
fragrant  leaf  sits  the  goddess  of  death ;  her 
kiss  of  welcome  breathes  consuming  fever  in- 
to thy  blood,  far  away,  far  away,  over  the 
swelling  waters  !" 

The  emigrant  company  Ustened  joyfully 
to  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  which  they 
thought  announced  to  them  happiness.  Day 
beamed  from  behind  light  clouds,  and  the 


78  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

peasant  people  went  over  the  heath  to  the 
church ;  the  darkly-apparelled  women,  with 
thek  milk-white  linen  around  their  heads, 
looked  like  figures  which  had  stepped  forth 
from  the  old  church  paintings  ;  all  aroimd 
them  was  nothing  but  the  vast  and  death- 
like landscape,  the  withered  brown  heath — ■ 
dark,  leafless  plains,  in  the  midst  of  white 
sand-banks.  The  women  carried  their  hymn- 
books  in  their  hands,  and  advanced  towards 
the  church.  Oh,  pray  !  pray  for  them  who 
wander  onward  to  their  graves  on  the  other 
Bide  of  the  heaving  water  ! 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  79 


FIFTEENTH  EVENING. 

I  know  a  theatrical  Clown, — said  the 
Moon, — the  pubhc  applauds  when  it  sees 
him  ;  every  one  of  his  movements  is  com  it, 
and  throws  the  house  into  convulsions  of 
laughter,  and  yet  he  is  not  moved  thereby  : 
that  is  his  peculiarity.  When  hé  was  yet  a 
child,  and  played  with  other  boys,  he  was 
already  a  punchinello.  Nature  had  made 
him  one  ;  had  given  him  one  lump  upon  his 
back,  and  another  upon  his  breast.  The 
inner  man,  however — the  spiritual — that  was 
really  well-formed.  No  human  being  had 
deeper  feeling,  or  greater  elasticity  of  mind 
than  he.  The  theatre  was  his  ideal-world. 
Had  he  been  slender  and  well  proportioned, 
then  he  might  have  become  a  first-rate  tragic 


80  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

actor,  for.  the  great,  the  heroic,  filled  his  soul ; 
but  he  was  obliged  to  be  the  Clown.  His 
sufferings,  even,  and  his  melancholy  increased 
the  comic  expression  of  his  strongly-marked 
countenance,  and  excited  the  laughter  of  the 
crowded  public  who  applauded  their  favorite. 
The  pretty  little  Columbine  was  friendly  and 
kind  to  him,  and  yet  she  preferred  marrying 
Harlequin.  It  would  have  been  too  comic  in 
reality  to  have  married  the  Clown  ;  like  the 
union  of  "  Beauty  and  the  Beast."  When  the 
Clown  was  most  out  of  liumoj-,  she  was  the  only 
one  who  could  make  him  smile — nay,  even 
burst  into  peals  of  laughter.  First  of  all  she 
would  be  melancholy  with  him,  then  rather 
cheerful,  and  at  last  full  of  fun, 

"I  know  what  it  is  thou  art  in  want  of!" 
said  she — "  yes,  it  is  this  love  !"  and  so  he  was 
obliged  to  laugh. 

"  Me  and  love  !"'  exclaimed  he.  "  That 
would  be  a  merry  thing  !  How  the  public 
would  applaud." 

"  It  is  love !"  continued  she ;  and  added, 
with  comic  pathos — "  It  is  me  that  you  love  !" 

"  Yes !  and  yet  there  are  people  who  say 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  love  !"    The  poor 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  81 

Clowii  sprung  up  into  the  air,  he  was  so 
diverted :  his  melancholy  was  now  gone. 
And  yet  she  had  spoken  the  truth :  he  did 
love  her — loved  her  like  the  sublime  and  great 
in  art. 

On  her  wedding-day  he  was  more  amusing 
than  ever.  At  night  he  wept :  had  the  public 
seen  his  distressed  countenance  then,  they 
would  have  applauded  him  ! 

A  few  days  ago  Columbine  died.  On  the 
day  of  her  funeral  Harlequin's  appearance 
was  excused  on  the  stage,  for  he  really  was  a 
mourning  husband.  The  manager,  however, 
was  obhged  to  give  something  more  merry 
than  common,  in  order  that  the  public  should 
not  miss  too  much  the  lovely  Columbine  and 
the  light-bodied  Harlequin,  and  for  this  reason 
it  behoved  the  Clown  to  be  doubly  entertain- 
ing. He  danced  and  sprung  aloft  with  de- 
spair at  his  heart,  and  the  public  clapped  their 
hands  and  shouted — "  Bravo,  bravissimo  !" 
The  clown  was  called  for  when  the  perform- 
ance was  over.     Oh,  he  was  invaluable  ! 

This  evening,  after  the  play,  the  poor 
little  man  walked  out  from  the  city  to  the 
solitary  churchyard.  The  garland  of  flowers 
6 


82  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

was  withered  on  Columbine's  grave ;  he  sate 
down.  It  was  something  worth  painting. 
His  hands  under  his  chin,  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
the  moon ;  it  was  Uke  a  monumental  figure. 
A  clown  upon  a  grave !  very  peculiar  and 
very  comic  !  Had  the  public  seen  their  favorite 
then,  how  they  Avould  have  shouted — "  Bravo, 
Clown  !  bravo,  bravissimo !" 


WITHOUT    PICTURES. 


SIXTEENTH  EVENING 

Listen  to  what  the  Moon  said.— I  have 
seen  the  cadet,  become  an  officer,  dress  him- 
self for  the  first  time  in  his  splendid  uniform  j 
I  have  seen  the  young  girl  in  her  beautiful 
ball-dress  ;  the  young  princely  bride  happy  in 
her  festival  attire  ;  but  the  felicity  of  none  of 
these  could  equal  that  which  this  evening  I 
sa'w^in  a  child,  a  httle  girl  of  four  years. 
Tl^  had  just  put  her  on  a  new  blue  frock 
and  a  new  pink  bonnet.  The  beautiful  things 
were  scarcely  on  when  they  called  for  candles, 
because  the  moon-hght  through  the  window 
was  too  faint ;  they  must  have  other  light. 
There  stood  the  little  girl  as  stiff  as  a  doll, 
her  arms  stretched  out  from  her  frock,  her 
fingers  spread  out  wide  from  each  other — and 


84  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

oh !  how  her  eyes,  her  whole  being-,  beamed 
with  dehght ! 

"To-morrow  you  shall  go  out  into  the 
street,"  said  the  mother ;  and  the  little  one 
looked  up  towards  her  bonnet  and  down  to- 
wards her  frock,  and  smiled  joyfully. 

"  Mother,"  said  she,  "  what  will  the  dogs 
think,  when  they  see  me  so  beautifully  dress- 
ed!" 


%f^ 


WITHOUT  PICTURES.  85 


SEVENTEENTH  EVENING. 

I  have,— said  the  Moon,— told  thee  about 
Pompeii,  that  corpse  of  a  city  amongst  Hvin  g 
cities.  I  know  another,  one  still  more 
strange ;  not  the  corpse,  but  the  ghost  of  a 
city.  On  all  sides  where  the  fountain  splashes 
into  a  marble  basin,  I  seem  to  hear  stories  of 
the  floating  city.  Yes,  the  fountain-streams 
can  tell  them!  The  billows  on  the  shore 
sing  of  them.  Over  the  surface  of  the  sea 
there  often  floats  a  mist,  that  is  the  widow's 
weeds.  The  sea's  bridegroom  is  dead  ;  his 
palace  and  city  are  now  a  mausoleum.  Dost 
thou  know  this  city?  The  rolling  of  the 
chariot-wheels,  or  the  sound  of  the  horse's 
hoof,  were  never  heard  in  its  streets.  The 
fish  swims,  and  hke  a  spectre  glides  the  black 
gondola  over  the  green  water. 


86  A    PidTtiRE-ÉOOK 

I  will, — continued  the  Moon, — show  thee 
the  forum  of  the  city,  the  city's  great  square, 
and  then  thou  wilt  think  it  to  be  a  city  for 
adventures.  Grass  grows  between  the  broad 
flag-stones,  and  thousands  of  tame  pigeons 
fly  circling  in  the  twilight  around  the  lofty 
tower.  On  three  sides  thou  art  surrounded 
by  colonnades.  The  Turk,  with  his  long 
pipe,  sits  silently  beneath  them  ;  the  hand- 
some Greek-lad  leans  against  a  pillar,  and 
looks  up  to  the  elevated  trophies,  the  tall 
masts,  the  memorial  of  the  ancient  powder. 
The  flag  hangs  drooping  like  mourning 
crape ;  a  girl  stands  there  to  rest  herself,  she 
has  set  down  the  heavy  buckets  of  water, 
whilst  the  yoke  on  which  she  sustained  them 
rests  upon  her  shoulders,  and  she  supports 
herself  on  the  column  of  victory.  That  is 
not  a  fairy  palace  but  a  church  which  thou 
seest  before  thee  !  the  gilded  dome,  the  gilded 
balls  around  it,  shine  in  my  beams ;  the 
magnificent  bronze  horses  upon  it  have 
traveled  about  like  bronze  horses  in  a  fairy 
tale  ;  they  have  traveled  thither,  away  from 
their  place,  and  then  again  back!  Seest 
thou  the  beautiful  painting  on  walls  and  wiu- 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  87 

dow  panes  ?  It  is  as  if  some  genius  had  done 
the  will  of  a  child  and  thus  decorated  this  ex- 
traordinary temple.    Dost  thou  see  the  winged 
lion  upon  the  pillar?    Gold  yet  shines  upon 
it,  but  the  Yv'ings  are  bound,  the  Hon  is  dead 
because  the  king  of  the  sea  is  dead  ;  the  vast 
halls  are  empty,  and  where  once  hung  costly 
pictures    the    naked    Avails   are    now   seen. 
Lazzaroni  sleep  under  the  arches,  where  at 
one  time  only  the  high  noble  dared  to  tread. 
Either  from  the  deep  well  or  from  the  chamber 
of  the   leaden   roof,    near  to  the  Bridge  of 
Sighs,  sounds  forth  a  groan,  whilst  tamborines 
are  heard  from  the  painted  gondola  as  the 
bridal-ring  is  cast  from  the  glittering  Bucen- 
taur  to  Adria,  the  queen  of  the  sea.     Adiia, 
wrap  thyself  in  mist !  let  the  widow's  veil 
cover  the  breast,  and  cast  it  over  thy  bride- 
groom's mausoleum  ; — the  marble-builder,  the 
spectre-like,  Venice." 


88 


A    PICTURE-BOOK 


EIGHTEENTH  EVENING. 

I  looked  down  upon  a  great  theatre, — said 
the  Moon,— the  whole  house  was  full  of  spec- 
tators, because  a  new  actor  made  his  debut; 
my  beams  fell  upon  a  little  window  in  the 
wall ;  a  painted  face  pressed  its  forehead 
against  the  glass;  it  was  the  hero  of  the 
night.  The  chivalric  beard  curled  upon  his 
chin ;  but  there  were  tears  in  the  man's  eyes, 
because  he  had  been  hissed — hissed  with 
reason.  Poor  fellow !  but  the  realm  of  art 
will  not  endure  the  feeble.  He  deeply  felt 
and  passionately  loved  art,  but  she  did  not 
love  him. 

The  prompter's  bell  rung ;— according  to 
the  piece,  the  hero  stepped  forth  with  a  bold 
and  determined  air — thus  had  he  to  appear 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  89 

before  a  public  which  burst  into  peals  of 
laughter. — The  piece  was  ended  ;  I  saw  a 
man  wrapped  in  a  cloak  steal  away  down  the 
steps  ;  it  was  he,  the  spirit-crushed  cavalier ; 
the  servants  of  the  theatre  whispered  to  each 
other  as  he  passed.  I  followed  the  poor 
wretch  home  to  his  chamber.  Hanging  is 
such  an  ignominious  death,  and  people  have 
not  always  poison  at  hand.  I  know  that  he 
thought  of  both.  He  looked  at  his  pale  face 
in  the  glass ;  half  closed  his  eyes  to  see 
whether  he  would  look  handsome  as  a  corpse. 
It  is  possible  for  people  to  be  unfortunate  in 
the  highest  degree,  and  yet  in  the  highest 
degree  vain  at  the  same  time.  He  thought 
upon  death,  upon  self-murder  ;  I  believe  he 
wept  in  pity  of  himself — he  wept  bitterly, 
and  when  people  have  had  a  good  fit  of  cry- 
ing they  do  not  kill  themselves. 

A  year  has  passed  since  then.  A  comedy 
was  acted,  but  this  time  in  a  little  theatre,  by 
a  poor  vagrant  company.  I  saw  again  the 
well-known  face,  the  painted  cheeks,  the 
curled  beard.  He  again  looked  up  to  me 
and  smiled — and  yet  for  all  that  he  had  been 
hissed — hissed  scarcely  a  minute   before  in 


90  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

that  miserable  theatre,  hissed  by  tliat  miser- 
able audience  ! 

This  very  evening  a  poor  hearse  has 
driven  out  of  the  gate  of  the  town  ;  not  a 
single  being  accompanied  it.  There  lay  upon 
it  a  suicide,  our  painted  and  derided  hero. 
The  driver  was  the  only  attendant ;  no  one 
followed,  no  one  except  the  Moon.  In  an 
angle  of  the  churchyard  wall  is  the  self- 
murdered  laid;  nettles  will  soon  spring  up 
thereon  ;  there  will  grave-diggers  cast  thorns 
and  weeds  from  other  craves. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES. 


91 


NINETEENTH  EVENING. 

I  come   from   Rome, — said  the  Moon,— 
there,  in  the  middle  of  the  city,  upon  one  of 
the  seven  hills,  he  the  ruins  of  the  palace  of 
the  Cæsars  ;  a  wild  fig-tree  grows  in  a  chink 
of  the  wall,  and  covers  its  nakedness  with  its 
broad,  gray-green  leaves;    the  ass  wanders 
over  the  heaps  of  rubbish  among  tlie  laurel 
hedges,    and   feasts   on    the   golden   thistle. 
From  this  spot,  whence  the   Roman  eagle 
once  flew  forth,  went,  and  saw,  and  conquer- 
ed, the  entrance  is  now  through  a  small,  mis- 
erable  house,  smeared  with  clay,   between 
two  broken  pillars  ;  tendrils  of  the  vine  hang 
down,  like  a  mourning  garland,  over  the  nar- 
row window.     An  old  woman,  with  her  little 
grand-daughter  lived  there  ;  they  ruled  now 


92 


A    PICTURK-BOOK 


in  the  palace  of  the  Cæsars,  and  showed  to 
strangers  the  buried  treasures.  There  remains 
of  the  rich  throne-room  nothing  but  a  naked 
wall ;  the  shadow  of  the  black  cypress  points 
to  the  place  where  the  throne  stood.  The 
earth  lies  to  the  depth  of  some  feet  above  the 
broken  floor ;  the  little  girl,  now  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  palace  of  the  Cæsars,  often  sits 
there  upon  her  little  stool,  when  the  evening 
bell  rings.  The  keyhole  in  the  door,  close 
beside  her,  she  calls  her  balcony,  and  through 
it  she  sees  over  half  of  Rome,  as  far  as  the 
mighty  dome  of  St.  Peter's. 

It  was  silent  as  ever,  this  evening,  and 
the  little  girl  came  homeward  in  my  full, 
bright  light.  She  carried  upon  her  head  an 
antiquely-formed  earthen  jug  filled  with  wa- 
ter ;  her  feet  were  bare ;  the  black  petticoat 
and  the  little  chemise  sleeves  were  in  tatters  ; 
I  kissed  the  child's  beautiful  round  shoulder, 
her  black  eyes,  and  her  dark  shining  hair. 
She  mounted  up  the  steps  of  the  house,  which 
were  steep,  and  were  formed  of  broken  pieces 
of  wall  and  a  shattered  capital.  The  bright- 
colored  lizard  glided  timidly  past  her  feet, 
but  she  was  not  frightened ;  she  raised  her 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  93 

hand  to  ring  at  the  door ;  there  hung  a  hare's 
foot  in  the  packthread,  which  is  now  the  bell- 
pull  at  the  palace  of  the  Cæsars.  She  stood 
stock-still  for  a  moment ;  what  was  she  think- 
ing  about  ?  Perhaps  of  the  beautiful  Jesus- 
child  clothed  in  gold  and  silver,  in  the  chapel 
below,  where  the  silver  lamp  was  bm^ning, 
and  where  her  little-girl  friends  were  singing 
in  chorus  as  she  knew ;  I  cannot  tell  if  it  was 
of  this  she  thought!  but  again  she  made  a 
movement,  ånd  stumbled ;  the  earthen  jug 
fell  from  her  head  and  was  shivered  in  pieces 
upon  the  broken  marble  pavement.  She 
burst  into  tears ;  the  beautiful  daughter  of 
the  palace  of  the  Cæsars  wept  over  the  poor, 
broken,  earthen  jug ;  she  stood  with  her  bare 
feet  and  w^ept,  and  dared  not  to  pull  at  the 
pack-thread  string,  the  bell-pull  at  the  palace 
of  the  Cæsars. 


94  A    PICTURE-BOOK 


TWENTIETH  EVENING. 

For  upwards  of  fourteen  days  the  Moon 
had  not  shone ;  now  I  saw  it  again,  round 
and  bright,  standing  above  the  slowly  ascend- 
ing clouds  ;  listen  to  what  the  Moon  related 
to  me.  I  followed  a  caravan  from  one  of  the 
cities  of  Fez ;  it  made  a  halt  upon  one  of  the 
salt  plains,  which  glittered  like  an  ice-field, 
and  where  one  little  stretch  only  was  cover- 
ed with  moveable  sand.  The  eldest  of  the 
caravan,  with  his  water-flask  hanging  at  his 
belt,  and  a  bag  of  unleavened  bread  around 
his  neck,  marked  out  a  square  in  the  sand 
with  his  staff,  and  wrote  therein  some  words 
of  the  koran ;  within  this  consecrated  spot 
the  whole  caravan  drew  up.  A  young  mer- 
chant, a  child  of  the  sun,  as  I  could  see  by 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  95 

his  eye  and  by  his  beautiful  form,  rode 
thoughtfully  upon  his  white  and  spirited 
charger.  Perhaps  he  was  thinking  of  his 
young  and  lovely  wife.  It  was  only  two 
days  since  the  camel,  adorned  with  skins  and 
costly  shawls,  bore  her,  a  beautiful  bride, 
around  the  walls  of  the  city ;  drums  and  bag- 
pipes resounded,  women  sang,  and  shouts  of 
joy  were  sent  forth  from  those  who  surround- 
ed the  camel,  the  bridegroom  shouted  the 
gayest  and  the  loudest  of  them  all,  and  now 
— now  he  rode  with  the  caravan  across  the 
desert.  I  accompanied  them  for  many  nights  ; 
saw  them  rest  beside  the  wells,  among  the 
crested  palm  trees  ;  they  stabbed  with  a  knife 
the  fallen  camel  and  cooked  the  flesh  with 
fire.  My  beams  cooled  the  burning  sand ; 
my  beams  showed  them  the  black  masses  of 
rock,  islands  of  death  in  the  immense  ocean 
of  sand.  No  hostile  power  had  éhey  met 
with  upon  their  trackless  path ;  no  storm 
was  abroad ;  no  pillars  of  sand  carried  death 
over  the  caravan. 

The  lovely  wife  prayed  to  heaven  for  her 
husband  and  father.  "Are  they  dead?"  in- 
quired she  from  my  gilded  horn.     "  Are  they 


96  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

dead  ? "  inquired  she  from  my  beaming  cres- 
cent. The  desert  now  Ues  behind  them  ;  on 
this  very  evening  they  rest  under  the  tall 
palm  trees,  around  which  circle  the  storks 
with  their  long  wings  ;  the  pelican  rushes 
down  upon  them  from  the  branches  of  the 
mimosa.  The  luxuriant  vegetation  is  tramp- 
led down  by  the  many  feet  of  the  elephants; 
a  troop  of  negro  people  come  onward  from  a 
distant  fair  ;  women  with  copper  buttons  in 
their  black  hair,  and  in  indigo-colored  petti- 
coats drive  on  the  laden  oxen  on  which  the 
naked  black  children  lie  asleep.  One  negro 
leads  in  a  thong  a  lion's  cub,  which  he  had 
purchased ;  they  approach  the  caravan  ;  the 
young  merchant  sits  immoveable,  silent ;  he 
thinks  upon  his  lovely  wife,  dreams  in  this 
negro  land  of  his  white  fragrant  flower  on 
the  other  side  the  desert ;  he  lifts  his  head — 
A  cloud  passed  over  the  Moon,  and  again  a 
cloud.     I  heard  no  more  that  night. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  97 


TWENTY-FIRST  EVENING. 

I  saw  a  little  girl  weeping, — said  the  Moon, 
— she  wept  because  of  the  wickedness  of  the 
world.  She  had  had  a  present  made  her  of 
the  most  beautiful  doll — Oh,  it  was  a  doll,  so 
lovely  and  delicate,  not  at  all  fitted  to  strug- 
gle with  misfortune !  But  the  little  girl's 
brother,  a  tall  lad,  had  taken  the  doll  and  set 
it  up  in  a  high  tree  in  the  garden,  and  then 
had  run  away.  The  little  girl  could  not 
reach  the  doll,  could  not  help  it  down,  and 
therefore  she  cried.  The  doll  cried  too,  and 
stretched  out  her  arms  from  among  the  green 
branches,  and  looked  so  distressed.  Yes,  this 
was  one  of  the  misfortunes  of  life  of  which  her 
mamma  had  so  often  spoken.  Oh,  the  poor 
doll !  It  already  began  to  get  dusk,  and  then 
7 


98  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

dismal  night  would  come  !  And  was  she  to 
sit  up  there  in  the  tree,  and  by  herself  all 
night?  No,  the  little  girl  would  not  endure 
the  thought  of  that. 

"  I  will  stay  with  you  !"  said  she,  although 
she  was  not  at  all  courageous.  She  began 
already  to  see  quite  plainly  the  little  elves,  in 
their  tall  pointed  hats,  peeping  from  between 
the  bushes,  and  down  the  dusky  alleys  danc- 
ed tall  spectres,  which  came  nearer  and  near- 
er. She  stretched  her  hands  up  towards  the 
tree  in  which  the  doll  sate,  and  they  laughed 
and  pointed  their  fingers  at  her.  Ah,  how 
terrified  was  the  little  girl  !  "  But  if  one  has 
not  done  anything  wrong,"  thought  she,  "  no- 
thing can  do  one  any  harm  !  Have  I  done 
anything  wrong  ?" 

She  thought.  "Ah,  yes!"  said  she,  "I 
laughed  at  the  poor  duck  with  the  red  rag 
tied  round  its  leg ;  it  hobbled  so  comically, 
and  that  made  me  laugh ;  but  it  is  wrong  to 
laugh  at  poor  animals." 

"  Have  you  laughed  at  poor  animals  7  " 
inquired  she,  looking  up  to  the  doll,  and  it 
seemed  to  her  as  if  the  doll  shook  her  head. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  99 


TWENTY-SECOND  EVENINC*. 

I  looked  into  the  Tyrol, — said  the  Moon, — 
I  caused  the  dark  fir-trees  to  cast  strong  sha- 
dows upon  the  rocks.  I  saw  the  holy  Chris- 
topher, with  the  child  Jesus  upon  his  shoul- 
der, as  he  stood  there  against  the  wall  of  the 
houses,  colossal  in  size  from  the  foundation 
to  the  gable.  The  holy  Florian  carries  water 
to  theburnin?  house,  and  Christ  hang's  bleed- 
ing  upon  the  great  cross  by  the  wayside. 
These  are  old  pictures  for  the  new  generation : 
I  have,  nevertheless,  seen  them  depart  one 
after  another. 

Aloft,  in  the  projection  of  the  mountains,  a 
solitary  nunnery  hangs  like  a  swallow's  nest. 
Two  sisters  stood  up  in  the  tower,  and  rung 
the  bell.     They  were  both  young,  and  there- 


100  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

fore  they  looked  out  beyond  the  mountains 
into  the  world.  A  travehng"  carriage  drove 
below  along  the  high  road,  the  postillion's 
horn  resounded,  and  the  poor  nuns  riveted 
with  kindred  thoughts  their  eyes  upon  it : 
there  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  younger  of 
the  two.  The  horn  sounded  fainter  and 
fainter  :  the  bell  of  the  nunnery  overpowered 
its  dying  tones. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES. 


101 


TWENTY-THIRD  EVENING. 

Listen  to  what  the  Moon  said. — Many- 
years  ago,  in  Copenhagen,  I  peeped  in  at  the 
window  of  a  poor  chamber.  The  father  and 
mother  slept,  but  the  Uttle  son  slept  not.  I 
saw  the  flowered  cotton  bed-hangings  move, 
and  the  child  peeped  out.  1  fancied  at  first 
that  he  was  looking  at  the  Bornholm  time- 
piece, it  was  so  beautifully  painted  with  red 
and  green,  and  a  cuckoo  sate  on  the  top  of 
it ;  there  were  heavy  leaden  weights,  and  the 
pendulum  with  its  shining  brass  surface, 
went  to  and  fro,  "  dik,  dik  !"  but  it  was  not 
that  which  he  was  looking  at — no,  it  was  his 
mother's  spinning-wheel,  which  stood  imder 
the  clock.  That  was  the  most  precious  piece 
of  furniture  in  the  whole  house  to  the  boy, 
but  he  did  not  dare  to  touch  it,  for  if  he  did, 


102  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

he  got  a  rap  on  the  fingers.  All  the  time  his 
mother  was  spinning  he  would  sit  beside  her, 
and  watch  the  humming  spole  and  the  turn- 
ing wheel,  and  he  had  the  while  his  own  pe- 
culiar thoughts  about  them.  Ah !  if  he  could 
only  dare  thus  to  spin  on  the  wheel !  Father 
and  mother  were  asleep  ;  he  looked  at  them, 
he  looked  at  the  wheel,  and  presently  after- 
wards one  little  naked  foot  was  pushed  out 
of  bed,  and  then  another  naked  foot,  then  two 
little  legs — thump  !  stood  he  upon  the  floor. 
He  turned  himself  once  round,  however,  to 
see  whether  father  and  mother  slept.  Yes, 
that  they  did !  and  so  he  went  softly,  very 
softly — in  nothing  but  his  short  little  shirt — 
to  the  wheel,  and  began  to  spin.  The  cord 
flew  off,  and  the  wheel  ran  round  faster  than 
ever.  1  kissed  his  yellow  hair  and  his  light 
blue  eyes  ;  it  was  a  lovely  picture.  At  that 
moment  the  mother  awoke — the  curtains 
moved — she  looked  out  and  thought  about 
elves,  or  some  other  kind  of  little  sprite. 

"  In  the  name  of  Jesus  !"  said  she  ;  and  full 
of  alarm,  awoke  her  husband.  He  opened 
his  eyes,  rubbed  them  with  his  hands,  and 
looked  at  the  busy  little  creature. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  103 

''  Il  is  actually  Bertel !"  said  lie. 

I  withdrew  my  gaze  from  that  poor  cham- 
ber— I  can  see  so  far  around  me  !  I  looked  at 
that  very  moment  into  the  hall  of  the  Vatican 
where  the  marble  gods  stand.  I  illumined 
the  group  of  the  Laocoon  ;  the  stone  seemed 
to  sigh.  I  pressed  my  quiet  kiss  upon  the 
muses'  breast;  I  fancy  it  heaved.  But  my 
beams  tarried  longest  upon  the  group  of  the 
Nile,  upon  the  colossal  god.  He  lay  full  of 
thought,  supporting  himself  upon  sphinxes : 
dreaming  there  as  if  he  were  thinking  of  the 
fleeting  year  ;  little  loves  played  around  him 
with  crocodiles.  In  the  horn  of  plenty  sate, 
with  folded  arms,  and  gazing  upon  the  great 
river-god,  a  very  little  love,  a  true  picture  of 
the  little  boy  with  the  wheel ;  it  was  the  same 
expression.  Living  and  charming,  here  stood 
the  little  marble  child ;  and  yet  more  than  a 
thousand  times  had  the  wheel  of  the  year 
gone  round  since  it  stood  forth  in  stone.  Just 
so  many  times  as  the  boy  in  the  poor  cham- 
ber turned  the  wheel  has  the  great  wheel  of 
time  hummed  round,  and  still  shall  hum,  be- 
fore the  age  creates  another  marble-god  like 
this. 


104 


A    PICTURE-BOOK 


See,  it  is  now  many  years  since  then.  Last 
evening,— continued   the    Moon,— I    looked 
down  upon  a  creek  in  the  east  coast  of  Zea- 
land.      Beautiful    woods   were   there,    lofty 
mounds,  an  old  mansion-house  with  red  walls, 
swans  in  the  moat,  and  a  little  trading  town, 
with  its  church  among-  the  apple-orchards.  A 
fleet  of  boats,  each  bearing  a  torch,  ghded 
over  the  unruffled  water ;  it  was  not  to  catch 
fish  that  the  torches  were  burning — no !  every- 
thing was  festal !     Music  sounded,   a  song 
was  sung  ;  and  in  the  middle  of  one  of  the 
boats  stood  he  whom  they  honored,  a   tall 
strong  man  in  a  large  cloak ;  he  had  blue 
eyes,  and  long  white  hair.     I  knew  him,  and 
thought  upon  the  Vatican,  and  the  Nile-group, 
and  all  the  marble  gods  ;  I  thought  upon  the 
poor  little  chamber  where  little  Bertel  sate  in 
his  short  shirt  and  spun. 

The  wheel  of  time  has  gone  round ;  new 
gods  have  ascended  from  the  marble.  "  Hur- 
rah !"  resounded  from  the  boats—*«  Hurrah  for 
Bertel  Thorwaldsen !" 


■WITHOUT    PICTURES. 


TWENTY-FOURTH  EVENING. 

I  will  give  thee  a  picture  from  Frankfort, 
— said  the  Moon : — I  took  notice  of  one  build- 
ing in  particular.  It  was  not  the  birth-place 
of  Goethe,  nor  was  it  the  old  town-house, 
where,  through  the  grated  windows,  are  still 
exhibited  the  horned  fronts  of  the  oxen  which 
were  roasted  and  given  to  the  people  at  the 
emperor's  coronation,  but  it  was  the  house  of 
a  citizen  painted  green  and  unpretending,  at 
the  corner  of  the  narrow  Jews'  street.  It 
was  the  house  of  the  Rothschilds.  I  looked 
in  at  the  open  door ;  the  flight  of  steps  was 
strongly  lighted ;  servants  stood  there  with 
burning  lights  in  massive  silver  candlesticks, 
and  bowed  themselves  lowly  before  the  old 
woman  who  was  carried  forth  down  the  steps 
in  a  sedan  chair.     The  master  of  the  house 


106  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

stood  with  bare  head,  and  impressed  reveren- 
tially a  kiss  upon  the  old  woman's  hand.  It 
was  his  mother.  She  nodded  kindly  to  him, 
and  to  the  servants  ;  and  they  carried  her  out 
into  the  narrow,  dark  street,  into  a  little 
house,  where  she  lived,  and  where  her  child 
was  born,  from  whom  all  her  good  fortune 
had  proceeded.  If  she  were  now  to  leave  the 
despised  street  and  the  little  house,  then,  per- 
haps, good  fortune  would  leave  him  ! — that 
was  her  belief. 

The  Moon  told  nothing  more.  Her  visit 
to  me  was  too  short  this  evening  ;  but  I 
thought  of  the  old  woman  in  the  narrow,  de- 
spised street.  Only  one  word  about  her — 
and  she  had  her  splendid  house  near  the 
Thames  ;  only  one  word  about  her — and  her 
villa  was  situated  on  the  Gulf  of  Naples. 

"  Were  I  to  leave  the  mean  little  house 
w*here  my  son's  good  fortune  began,  then> 
perhaps,  good  fortune  would  leave  him  !" 

This  is  a  superstition,  but  of  that  kind 
which  only  requires,  when  the  history  is 
known  and  the  picture  seen,  two  words  as 
a  superscription  to  make  it  intelligible — A 
Mother. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  107 


TWENTY-FIFTH   EVENING. 

It  was  yesterday,  in  the  morning  twilight, 
— these  were  the  Moon's  own  words, — not  a 
chimney  was  yet  smoking  in  tiie  whole  city, 
and  it  was  precisely  the  chimneys  that  I  was 
looking  at.  From  one  of  these  chimneys  at 
that  very  moment  came  forth  a  little  head, 
and  then  a  half  body,  the  arms  of  which 
rested  on  the  coping  stone  of  the  chimney. 
"  Hurrah  !"  It  was  a  little  chimney-sweeper 
lad,  who,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  had 
mounted  a  chimney,  and  had  thus  put  forth 
his  head.  "  Hurrah  !"  Yes,  there  was  some 
difference  between  this  and  creeping  upwards 
in  the  narrow  chimney !  The  air  blew  so 
fresh ;  he  could  look  out  over  the  whole  city 
to  the  green  wood.     The  sun  had  just  risen  ; 


108  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

round  and  large,  it  looked  brightly  into  his 
face,  which  beamed  with  happiness,  although 
it  was  famously  smeared  with  soot. 

"  Now  the  whole  city  can  see  me,  and  the 
moon  can  see  me,  and  the  sun  also  !"  and 
with  that  he  flourished  about  his  brush. 


■WITHOUT    PICTURES.  109 


TWENTY-SIXTH  EVENING. 

Last  night  I  looked  down  upon  a  city  in 
China, — said  the  Moon.  My  beams  illumin- 
ed the  long  naked  walls  which  form  the 
streets  ;  here  and  there,  to  be  sure,  is  a  door, 
but  it  is  closed,  because  the  Chinese  troubled 
not  themselves  about  the  world  outside. 
Impenetrable  Venetian  shutters  covered  the 
windows  of  the  houses  behind  the  walls ; 
from  the  temple  alone  light  shone  faintly 
through  the  window-glass.  I  looked  in — 
looked  in  upon  the  brilliant  splendor  ;  from 
floor  to  ceiling  was  covered  with  pictures  in 
strong  colors  and  rich  gilding,  which  rep- 
resented the  works  of  the  gods  on  earth. 
Their  statues  themselves  stood  in  every 
niche,  but  mostly  concealed  by  brilliant  dra- 


110  A    PICTURE-BOOl£ 

peries  and  suspended  fans  ;  and  before  every 
divinity^the)^  were  all  of  tin — stood  a  little 
altar  with  holy  water,  flowers,  and  burning 
wax-lights.  Supreme  in  the  temple,  however, 
stood  Fu,  the  supreme  divinity,  dressed  in  a 
garment  of  silken  stuff  of  the  holy  yellow 
color.  At  the  foot  of  the  altar  sate  a  living 
figure,  a  young  priest.  He  appeared  to  be 
praying,  but  in  the  midst  of  his  prayer  he 
sunk  into  deep  thought ;  and  it  certainly  was 
sinful,  because  his  cheeks  burned,  and  his 
head  bowed  very  low.  Poor  Souihoung ! 
Perhaps  he  was  dreaming  about  working  in 
one  of  the  little  flower-gardens  which  lie  be- 
fore every  house  behind  the  long  wall  of  the 
street,  and  which  was  a  fai'  pleasanter  occu- 
pation to  him  than  trimming  the  wax-lights 
in  the  temple  ;  or  was  he  longing  to  be  seated 
at  the  well-covered  board,  and  between  every 
course  to  be  wiping  his  lips  with  silver  paper? 
or  was  it  a  sin  so  great  that  if  he  had  dared 
to  utter  it,  the  heavenly  powers  must  have 
punished  him  with  death  ?  Were  his  thoughts 
bold  enough  to  take  flight  with  the  ship  of 
the  barbarians  to  their  home,  the  remote 
England  ?     No,  his  thoughts  did  not  fly  so 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  Ill 

/ar  ;  and  yet  they  were  as  sinful  as  the  warm 
blood  of  youth  could  make  them — sinful  here, 
in  the  temple  before  the  statues  of  Fu  and 
the  holy  deities.  I  knew  where  his  thoughts 
were.  In  the  most  distant  corner  of  the  city, 
upon  the  flat,  flagged  roof,  the  parapet  of 
which  seemed  to  be  made  of  porcelain,  and 
where  stood  the  beautiful  vases  in  which 
grew  large  white  campanulas,  sate  the  youth- 
ful Pe,  with  her  small  roguish  eyes,  her  pout- 
ing lips,  and  her  least  of  all  little  feet.  Her 
shoes  pinched,  but  there  was  a  more  severe 
pinching  at  her  heart ;  she  raised  her  delicate, 
blooming  arms,  and  the  satin  rustled.  Be- 
fore her  stood  a  glass  bowl,  in  which  were  four 
gold  fish  :  she  stirred  the  water  very  softly 
with  a  beautifully  painted  and  japaned  stick. 
Oh,  so  slowly  she  stirred  it  because  she  was 
deep  in  thought !  Perhaps  she  was  thinking 
how  rich  and  golden  was  the  apparel  of  the 
fish,  how  safely  they  lived  in  the  glass  bowl, 
and  how  luxuriously  they  were  fed  ;  and  yet, 
for  all  that,  how  much  more  happy  they 
might  be  in  freedom  :  yes,  the  idea  distressed 
the  beautiful  Pe.  Her  thoughts  passed  away 
from  her  home  ;  her  thoughts  went  into  the 


112  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

church,  but  it  was  not  for  the  sake  of  the  gods 
that  they  went  there.  Poor  Pe !  poor  Soui- 
houng !  Their  earthly  thoughts  met,  but 
my  cold  beam  lay  like  a  cherub's  sword  be- 
tween them. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  113 


TWENTY-SEVENTH  EVENING. 

There  was  a  calm, — said  the  Moon — the 
water  was  as  tiansparent  as  the  pure  an* 
through  which  I  floated.  I  could  see,  far 
below  the  surface  of  the  sea,  the  strange 
plants  which,  like  giant  trees  in  groves, 
heaved  themselves  up  towards  me  with  stems 
a  fathom  long,  whilst  the  fish  swam  over 
their  tops.  High  up  in  the  air  flew  a  flock 
of  wild  swans,  one  of  which  sank  with 
wearied  wings  lower  and  lower :  its  eyes 
followed  the  airy  caravan,  w^hich  every  mo- 
ment became  more  distant;  its  pinions  were 
expanded  widely,  and  it  sank,  like  a  soap- 
bubble  in  the  still  air ;  it  touched  the  surface 
of  the  water,  bowed  back  its  head  between 
its  wings,  and  lay  still,  like   a  white  lotus 


114  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

upon  the  calm  Indian  Sea.  The  breeze  blew, 
and  lifted  up  the  bright  surface  of  the  water, 
which  was  brilliant  as  the  air ;  there  rolled 
on  a  large,  broad  billow — the  swan  lifted  its 
head,  and  the  shining  water  was  poured,  like 
blue  fire,  over  its  breast  and  back. 

The  dawn  of  day  illumined  the  red  clouds, 
and  the  swan  rose  up  refreshed,  and  flew 
towards  the  ascending  sun,  towards  the  blue 
coast,  whither  had  betaken  themselves  die  airy 
caravan ;  but  it  flew  alone — with  longing  in 
its  breast,  flew  alone  over  the  blue,  the  foam- 
ing water ! 


WITHOUT    PICTURES. 


115 


TWENTY-EIGHTH  EVENING. 

I  will  now  give  thee  a  picture  from  Swe- 
den, said  the  Moon.— In  the  midst  of  black 
pine  woods,  not  far  from  the  melancholy 
shore  of  Roxe,  Hes  the  old  convent-church  of 
Wreta.  My  beams  passed  through  the  grat- 
ing in  the  walls  into  the  spacious  vault  where 
kino-s  sleep  in  great  stone  coffins.  On  the 
wall  above  them,  is  placed,  as  an  image  of 
earthly  magnificence,  a  king's  crown,  made 
of  wood,  painted  and  gilded,  and  held  firm 
by  a  wooden  pin,  which  is  driven  into  the 
wall.  The  worm  has  eaten  through  the 
gilded  wood,  the  spider  has  spun  its  web  from 
the  crown  to  the  coffin;  it  is  a  mourning 
banner,  perishable,  as  mourning  for  the  dead  ! 
How  still  they  sleep  !  I  remember  them  so 


116  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

well !  I  see  now  the  bold  smile  on  the  lips 
which  expressed  joy  or  sorrow  so  strongly, 
so  decisively.  When  the  steam-vessel,  like 
an  enchanted  ship,  sails  hither  from  the 
mountains,  many  a  stranger  comes  to  the 
church,  visits  this  vault,  and  inquires  the 
names  of  the  kings,  and  these  names  sound 
forgotten  and  dead  ;  he  looks  upon  the  worm- 
eaten  crown,  smiles,  and  if  he  be  of  a  pious 
turn  of  mind,  there  is  melancholy  in  his 
smile. 

Slumber  ye  dead  !  the  Moon  remembers 
you.  The  Moon  sends  in  the  night  her  cold 
beams  to  your  quiet  kingdom,  over  which 
hangs  the  wooden  crown  ! 


WITHOUT    PICTURES.  117 


TWENTY-NINTH  EVENING. 

Close  beside  the  high  road. — said  the  Moon, 
— Ues  a  httle  pubUc  house,  and  just  opposite  to 
it  is  a  great  coach  house.  As  the  roof  was 
under  repair,  I  looked  down  between  the 
beams  and  saw  through  the  open  trap-door  into 
the  great  desolate  space  ;  the  turkey  slept  up- 
on the  beam,  and  the  saddle  was  laid  to  rest 
in  the  empty  manger.  In  the  middle  of  the 
place  stood  a  travelling-carriage,  within  which 
the  gentlefolks  were  sound  asleep,  whilst  the 
horses  were  feeding,  and  the  driver  stretched 
his  limbs,  although  I  know  very  well  that  he 
slept  soundly  more  than  half  the  way.  The 
door  of  the  fellow's  chamber  stood  open,  and 
the  bed  looked  as  if  he  had  tumbled  neck  and 
heels  into  it ;  the  candle  stood  on   the  floor, 


118  A    PICTURE-BOOK 

and  biiraed  low  in  the  socket.  The  wind 
blew  cold  through  the  barn ;  and  the  time 
was  nearer  to  daybreak  than  midnight.  Upon 
.  the  floor  within  the  stall,  slept  a  family  of 
wandering  musicians :  father  and  mother 
were  dreaming  about  the  burning  drop  in  the 
bottle  ;  the  pale  little  girl,  she  dreamed  about 
the  burning  tears  in  her  eyes.  The  harp  lay 
at  their  head,  and  the  dog  at  their  feet. 


WITHOUT    PICTURES. 


119 


THIRTIETH  EVENING. 

It  was  in  a  little  trading  town— said  the 
Moon— I  saw  it  last  year ;  but  that  is  no- 
thing, for  I  saw  it  so  plainl5^  This  evening 
I  read  about  it  in  the  newspaper,  but  it  was 
not  nearly  as  plain  there. 

Down  in  the  parlor  of  the  public-house  sate 
the  master  of  the  bear,  and  ate  his  supper. 
Bams,  the  bear,  stood  outside,  tied  to  the  fag- 
got-stake. The  poor  bear!  he  would  not 
have  done  the  least  harm  to  any  soul,  for  all 
his  grim  looks.  Up  in  the  garret  there  lay, 
m  the  bright  hght  of  the  Moon,  three  Httle 
children:  the  eldest  was  six  years  old,  the 
youngest  not  more  than  two.  "  Clap,  clap  !" 
came  something  up  the  stairs  !  What  could  it 
be  ?     The  door  sprang  open — it  was  Bams, 


12a 


A    PICTURE-BOOK 


the  great  rough  bear  !  He  had  grown  tired 
of  standing  out  there  in  the  yard,  and  he  now 
found  his  way  up  the  steps.  I  saw  the  whole 
thing,— said  the  Moon.  The  children  were 
very  much  frightened  at  the  great  grim-look- 
ing beast,  and  crept  each  one  of  them  into  his 
corner  ;  but  he  found  them  all  out,  rubbed 
them  with  his  snout,  but  did  them  no  harm 
at  all !  "  It  is  certainly  a  big  dog !"  thought 
they  ;  and  with  that  they  patted  him.  He 
laid  himself  down  on  the  floor,  and  the  least 
boy  tumbled  upon  him,  and  played  at  hiding 
his  yellow  curly  head  among  his  thick  black 
hair.  The  eldest  boy  now  took  his  drum  and 
made  a  tremendous  noise,  and  the  bear  rose 
up  on  his  hind  legs  and  began  to  dance.  It 
was  charming  !  Each  boy  took  his  weapons  ; 
the  bear  must  have  a  gun,  too,  and  he  held 
it  like  a  regular  soldier.  What  a  glorious 
comrade  they  had  found  !  and  so  they  march- 
ed— "  One,  two  !  one,  two  !" 

Presently  the  door  opened ;  it  was  the  chil- 
dren's mother.  You  should  have  seen  her— - 
seen  her  speechless  horror;  her  face  as 
white  as  a  wall,  her  half-opened  mouth,  her 


"WITHOUT    PICTURES.  121 

Staring  eyes  ;  the  least  of  the  children,  how- 
ever, nodded  so  joyfully,  and  shouted  with  all 
his  might — "We  are  playing  at  soldiers!" 
And  with  that,  up  came  the  bear's  master ! 


STORIES. 


123 


MY  BOOTS. 

There  is  a  street  in  Rome  which  is  called 
Via  delta  Purificazione ;  yet  nobody  can 
say  of  it  that  it  is  purified.  It  goes  up-hill 
and  down-hill ;  cabbage  stalks  and  old  bro- 
ken pots  lie  scattered  about  it ;  the  smoke 
comes  curling  out  of  the  door  of  the  public- 
house,  and  the  lady  who  lives  opposite  to  me 
— yes,  I  cannot  help  it,  but  it  is  true — the  la- 
dy on  the  opposite  side,  she  shakes  her  sheets 
every  morning  out  of  the  window.  In  this 
street  there  generally  live  many  foreigners ; 
this  year,  however,  fear  of  the  fever  and  ma- 
lignant sickness  keeps  most  of  them  in  Na- 
ples and  Florence.  I  lived  quite  alone  in  a 
great  big  house  ;  neither  the  host  nor  hostess 
ever  slept  there  at  night. 
125 


126  MY    BOOTS. 

It  was  a  great,  hig,  cold  house,  with  a  little 
wet  garden,  in  which  there  grew  only  one 
row  of  peas,  and  a  half-extinguished  gilly- 
flower; and  yet,  in  the  very  next  garden, 
which  lay  higher,  there  were  hedges  of 
monthly  roses,  and  trees  full  of  yellow  lem- 
ons. These  last,  spite  of  the  incessant  rain, 
looked  vigorous  ;  the  roses,  on  the  contrary, 
looked  as  if  they  had  lain  for  eight  days  in 
the  sea. 

The  evenings  were  so  lonesome  in  the  cold 
large  rooms  ;  the  black  chimney  yawning  be- 
^tween  the  windows,  and  without  were  rain 
and  mist.  All  the  doors  were  fastened  with 
locks  and  iron  bolts  ;  but  what  good  could 
that  do  ?  The  wind  whistled  in  a  tone  sharp 
enough  to  cut  one  in  two  through  the  cracks 
in  the  doors  ;  the  thin  faggots  kindled  in  the 
chimney,  but  did  not  send  out  their  warmth 
very  far  ;  the  cold  stone  floor,  the  damp  walls 
and  the  lofty  ceiling  seemed  only  suited  to 
the  summer  season. 

If  I  would  make  myself  right  comfortable, 
I  was  obliged  to  put  on  my  traveling  fur- 
boots,  my  great  coat,  my  cloak,  and  my  fur- 
cap,— yes,  and  then  I  could  do  tolerably  well. 


MY   BOOTS.  127 

To  be  sure,  the  side  next  the  fire  was  half 
roasted  ;  but  then,  in  this  world,  people  must 
learn  to  turn  and  twist  themselves  about,  and 
I  turned  myself  like  a  sunflower. 

The  evenings  were  somewhat  long- ;  but 
then  the  teeth  took  it  into  their  heads  to  get 
up  a  nervous  concert,  and  it  was  extraordi- 
nary with  what  alacrity  the  proposal  was  ac- 
cepted. A  downright  Danish  toothache  can- 
not compare  itself  to  an  Italian  one.  Here 
the  pain  played  upon  the  very  fangs  of  the 
teeth,  as  if  there  sate  a  Liszt  or  a  Thalberg 
at  them ;  now  it  thundered  in  the  fore- 
ground, now  in  the  background.  There 
was  an  accordance  and  strength  in  the  whole 
thing  which  at  last  drove  me  beside  myself. 

Besides  the  evening  concerts,  there  were 
also  nocturnal  concerts  ;  and  during  such  a 
one,  while  the  windows  rattled  in  the  storm, 
and  rain  poured  down  in  torrents,  I  threw  a 
half-melancholy  glance  upon  my  night-lamp. 
My  writing  implements  stood  just  by,  and  I 
saw,  quite  plainly,  that  the  pen  was  dancing 
along  over  the  paper  as  if  it  were  guided  by 
an  invisible  hand ;  but  it  was  not  so  ;  it  was 
guided  by  its  own  hand  ;  it  wrote  from  dicta- 


128 


MY   BOOTS. 


tion  ;  and  who  dictated  ?  Yes,  it  may  sound 
incredible,  but  is  the  truth  for  all  that.  And 
when  I  say  so,  people  will  believe  me.  It 
was  my  boots, — my  old  Copenhagen  boots— 
which,  being  soaked  through  and  through 
with  rain-water,  now  had  their  place  in  the 
chimney,  near  to  the  red  glowing  fire.  Whilst 
I  was  suffering  from  toothache,  they  were 
suffering  from  dropsy;  they  dictated  their 
own  autobiography,  which,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
may  throw  some  light  upon  the  Italian  win- 
ter of  1840-41. 
The  Boots  said, — ■ 

"  We  are  two  brothers,  Right  and  Left  Boot. 
Our  earliest  recollection  is  of  being  strongly 
rubbed  over  with  v^ax,  and  after  that  highly 
polished.  I  could  see  myself  reflected  in  my 
brother ;  my  brother  could  see  himself  reflect- 
ed in  me  ;  and  we  saw  that  Ave  were  ojily 
one  body,— a  sort  of  Castor  and  Pollux  ;  a 
pair  of  together-grown  Siamese,  which  fate 
has  ordained  to  live  and  die,  to  exist,  and 
not  to  exist,  together.  We  were,  both  of  us, 
native  Copenhageners. 

The  shoemaker's  apprentice  carried  us  out 
mto  the  world  in  his  own  hands,  and  this 


MY   BOOTS. 


129 


gave  rise  to  sweet,  but  alas  !  false  hopes  of 
our  destination.  The  person  to  whom  we 
were  thus  brought,  pulled  us  on  by  the  ears, 
until  we  fitted  to  his  legs,  and  then  he  went 
down  stairs  in  us.  We  creaked  for  joy  ! 
When  we  got  out  of  doors  it  rained — we  kept 
creaking  on,  however  ;  but  only  for  the  first 
day. 

"Ah !  there  is  a  great  deal  of  bad  weather 
to  go  through  in  this  world  !  We  were  not 
made  for  water  boots,  and  therefore  did  not 
feel  happy.  No  brushing  ever  gave  us  again 
the  polish  of  our  youth  ;  the  polish  which 
we  possessed  when  the  shoemaker's  appren- 
tice carried  us  through  the  streets  in  his  hand. 
Who  can  describe  our  joy,  therefoi'e,  when 
we  heard  it  said  one  morning,  that  we  were 
going  into  foreign  parts  !  yes,  were  even  go- 
ing to  Italy,  to' that  mild,  warm  country, 
where  we  should  only  tread  upon  marble  and 
classic  ground  ;  drink  in  the  sunshine,  and, 
of  a  certainty,  recover  the  brightness  of  our 
youth. 

"  We  set  out.  Through  the  longest  part 
of  our  journey  we  slept  in  the  trunk,  and 
dreamed  about  the  warm  countries.     In  the 


130  MY    BOOTS. 

cities  or  the  country,  we  made  good  use  of 
our  eyes ;  it  was,  however,  bad  weather,  and 
wet  there  also  as  in  Denmark.  Our  soles 
were  taken  ill  of  palsy,  and  in  Munich  were 
obliged  to  be  taken  off,  and  we  had  a  new 
pair  ;  but  these  were  so  well  done,  that  they 
looked  like  native  soles. 

"  '  Oh,  that  we  were  but  across  the  Alps  ! ' 
sighed  we ;  there  the  weather  is  mild  and 
good.' 

"We  came  to  the  other  side  of  the  Alps, 
but  we  found  neither  mild  nor  good  weather. 
It  rained  and  blew  ;  and  when  we  trod  upon 
marble,  it  was  so  icy-cold,  that  it  forced  the 
cold  perspiration  out  of  our  soles  ^  wherever 
we  trod  we  left  behind  a  wet  impression- 
In  the  evenings,  however,  it  was  very  amus- 
ing when  the  shoe-boys  at  the  hotels  collected 
and  numbered  the  boots  and  shoes  ;  and  we 
were  set  among  all  these  foreign  companions 
and  heard  them  tell  about  all  the  cities  where 
they  had  been.  There  was  once  a  pair  of 
beautiful  red  morocco  boots,  with  black  feet, 
I  think  it  was  in  Bologna,  that  told  us  all 
about  their  ascending  Vesuvius,  where  their 
feet  were  burned  off  with  the  subterranean 


MY    BOOTS.  131 

heat.  Ah  !  we  could  not  help  longing  to  die 
such  a  death. 

"  '  If  we  were  but  across  the  Appenines  ! 
If  we  were  but  in  Rome  !'  sighed  we.  And 
we  came  thither  ;  but  for  one  week  after  an- 
other have  been  tramping  about  in  nothing 
but  wet  and  mud.  People  must  see  every- 
thing ;  and  wonderful  sights  and  rainy 
weather,  never  come  to  an  end.  Not  a  sin- 
gle warm  sunbeam  has  refreshed  us  ;  the 
cold  wind  is  always  whistling  round  us.  Oh 
Rome  !  Rome  !  For  the  first  time  this  night 
do  we  inhale  warmth  in  this  blessed  chimney 
corner,  and  we  will  inhale  it  till  we  burst ! 
The  upper  leathers  are  gone  already, — no- 
thing remains  but  the  hind  quarters,  and  they 
will  soon  give  way.  Before,  however,  we  die 
this  blessed  death,  we  wish  to  leave  our  his- 
tory behind  us ;  and  we  wish  also  that  our 
corpses  should  be  taken  to  Berlin,  to  repose 
near  to  that  man  who  had  the  heart  and  the 
courage  to  describe  '  Italy  as  it  is,' — even  by 
the  truth-loving  Nicolai." 

And  with  these  words  the  boots  crumbled 
to  pieces. 

All  was   still :  my  night-lamp  had  gone 


■^^ 


132  MY    BOOTS. 

out.  I  myself  slumbered  a  little ;  and  when 
towards  morning  I  awoke,  I  found  it  was  all 
a  dream ;  but  when  I  glanced  towards  the 
chimney-corner,  I  saw  the  boots  all  shrivelled 
up,  standing  like  mummies  beside  the  cold 
ashes  !  I  looked  at  the  paper  which  lay  near 
to  my  lamp — it  was  grey  paper,  full  of  ink 
spots — the  pen  unquestionably  had  been  over 
it,  but  the  words  had  all  run  one  into  another ; 
however  the  pen  had  written  the  Memoirs  of 
the  Boots  on  grey  paper.  That,  however, 
which  was  legible  I  copied  out ;  and  the  peo- 
ple will  be  so  good  as  to  recollect  that  it  is 
not  I,  but  my  boots,  which  make  this  com- 
plaint of  La  bella  Italia. 


SCENES  ON  THE  DANUBE. 


To-day  is  Sunday. 
It  is  Sunday  in  the  calendar ;  it  is  Sunday 
in  God's  beautiful  nature !  Let  us  go  out  into 
the  hills  toward  Mehadia,  the  most  delight- 
fully situated  of  all  the  watering-places  in 
Hungary.  What  a  mass  of  flowers  are  in 
bloom  in  the  tall  green  grass  !  What  gushes 
of  sunshine  upon  the  wood-covered  sides  of 
the  hills  !  The  air  is  blue  and  transparent. 
To-day  it  is  Sunday,  and  therefore  all  the 
people  whom  we  meet  are  in  holiday  attire. 
The  smooth,  black,  plaited  hair  of  the  girls  is 
adorned  with  real  flowers ;  with  a  spray  of 
laburnum,  or  a  dark  red  carnation  ;  the  white 
chemise  sleeves  are  embroidered  with  green 
and  red  ;  the  petticoat  .resembles  a  deep 
fringe  of  red,  blue,  and  yellow :  even  the  old 
133 


134  TO-DAY    IS    SUNDAY. 

grandmother  is  dressed  in  fringe,  and  wears 
a  flower  in  her  white  hnen  head-band. 
Young  men  and  boys  have  roses  in  their 
hats ;  the  very  least  is  arrayed  in  his  best, 
and  looks  splendid  ;  his  short  shirt  hangs 
outside  his  dark-colored  breeches  ;  a  spray  of 
laburnum  is  wreathed  round  his  large  hat, 
which  soon  half  buries  his  eyes.  Yes,  it  is 
Sunday  to-day ! 

What  a  solitude  there  is  in  these  hills  ! 
Life  and  health  gush  in  water  out  of  these 
springs  ;  music  resounds  from  the  stately, 
large  pump-room ;  the  nightingale  sings  in 
the  clear  sunshine,  among  the  fragrant  trees, 
where  the  wild  vines  climb  from  branch  to 
branch. 

Thou  wonderful  nature !  to  me  the  best, 
the  holiest  of  churches  !  In  the  midst  of  thee 
my  heart  tells  me  that  "  this  day  is  Sunday  !" 

We  are  again  in  Orsova.  The  brass  ball 
upon  the  church- tower  shines  in  the  sun : 
the  door  is  open.  How  solitary  it  is  within. 
The  priest  stands  in  his  robes  and  lifts  up  his 
voice  ;  it  is  Father  Adam  ;  little  Antonius 
kneels  before  him,  and  swings  to  and  fro  the 
censer ;  the  elder  boy,  Hieronymus,  has  his 


TO-DAY    IS    SUNDAY. 


135 


place  in  the  middle  of  the  church,  and  repre- 
sents the  whole  Armenian  congregation. 

In  front  of  the  church,  in  the  market-place, 
where  the  lime-trees  are  in  blossom,  there  is 
a  great  dance  of  young  and  old.  In  the 
middle  of  the  circle  stand  the  musicians  ;  one 
blows  the  bag-pipe,  the  other  scrapes  the 
fiddle.  The  circle  twists  itself  first  to  the 
right,  then  to  the  left.  Everybody  is  in  their 
utmost  grandeur,  with  fringe,  flowers,  and 
bare  feet.     To-day  it  is  Sunday  ! 

Several  httle  lads  run  about  in  nothing  but 
a  shirt ;  upon  their  heads,  however,  they  wear 
a  large  man's  hat,  and  in  the  hat  a  flower. 
Official  people,  gentlemen  and  ladies  all 
dressed  in  the  fashion  of  Vienna,  walk  about 
to  loolc  at  the  people,  the  dancing  people. 
The  red  evening  sun  illumines  the  white 
church  tower,  the  amber-colored  Danube,  and 
the  wood-crowned  mountains  of  Servia :  may 
it  shine  also  in  my  song  when  I  sing  of  it ! 
How  beautiful  and  animated!  How  fresh 
and  peculiar !  Everything  indicates  a  holiday. 
Everything  shows  that  to-day  is  Sunday ! 


136  AT    DRENCOVA. 

At  Drencova. 

About  sunset  I  walked  alone  in  the  wood 
near  the  little  town,  where  I  fell  in  with  some 
gipseys  who  had  encamped  round  a  fire  for 
the  night.  When  I  returned  back  throug-h 
the  Avood,  I  saw  a  handsome  peasant-lad 
standing  among  the  bushes,  who  bade  me 
good  evening  in  German.  I  asked  him  if  this 
were  his  native  tongue  ;  he  replied  in  the 
negative,  and  told  me  that  he  commonly 
spoke  in  the  Wallacian  language,  but  that 
he  had  learned  German  in  the  school.  To 
judge  by  his  dress  he  appeared  very  poor  ; 
but  everything  that  he  wore  was  so  clean  ; 
his  hair  so  smoothly  combed  ;  his  eyes  beam- 
ed with  such  an  expression  of  happiness ; 
there  was  something  so  thoughtful  and  so 
good  in  his  countenance,  as  I  rarely  have 
seen  in  a  child  before.  I  asked  him  if  he 
Avere  intended  for  a  soldier,  and  he  replied, 
"Yes,  we  are  all  of  us  soldiers  here,  but  I 
wish  to  be  an  officer,  and  therefore  I  learn 
everything  that  I  can."  There  was  a  some- 
thing in  his  whole  manner  so  innocent,  so 
noble,    that  actually,  if  I  had  been  rich,  I 


AT    DRENCOVA.  137 

would  have  adopted  that  boy.  I  told  him 
that  he  certainly  must  be  an  officer  ;  and  that 
no  doubt  he  would  be  one  if  he  only  zealously 
strove  after  it,  and  put  his  trust  in  God. 

In  reply  to  my  question,  whether  he  knew 
where  Denmark  was,  he  thought  with  him- 
self for  some  time,  and  then  said,  "  I  fancy  it 
is  a  long  way  from  here — near  Hamburgh." 

I  could  not  give  an  alms  to  this  boy ;  he 
seemed  too  noble  to  receive  charity ;  I  asked 
him,  therefore,  to  gather  me  a  few  flowers ; 
he  ran  away  readily,  and  soon  gathered  me 
a  beautiful  nosegay.  I  took  and  said  I  shall 
buy  these  flowers.  In  that  way  he  received 
payment;  he  blushed  deeply,  and  thanked, 
me  sweetly.  He  told  me  that  his  name  was 
Adam  Marco.  I  took  one  of  my  cards  out  of 
my  pocket,  and  gave  it  to  him,  saying, 
"  Some  day  when  you  are  an  officer,  and  per- 
haps may  come  to  Denmark,  then  inquire 
for  me,  and  your  happiness  will  give  me  great 
pleasure.  Be  industrious,  and  put  your  trust 
in  God !  There  is  no  knowing  what  may 
happen." 

Never  did  any  unknoAvn  child  make  such 
a  strong  impression  on  me  at  the  first  meet- 


138 


AT    DRENCOVA. 


ing,  as  did  this.     His  noble  deportment,  his 
thoughtful  innocent   countenance,  were  his 
best  patent  of  nobility.     He  must  become  an 
officer;  and  I  will  do  my  little  towards  it; 
committing   it,   it  is   true,    to   the   hand   of 
chance.     And  here  I  make  my  bow  to  every 
noble,  rich,   Hungarian  lady,   who,  by   any 
chance,  may  read  this  book,  and  who,  per- 
haps, for   the   "  Improvisatore "    and  "The 
Fiddler,"  may  have  a  kindly  thought;  the 
poet  beseeches  of  her— or  if  he  have,  unknown 
to  hmaself,  a  wealthy  friend  iii  Hungary,  or 
m  Wallacia,    he  beseeches  also  of  him    to 
thmk  of  Adam  Marco  in   Drencova,  and  to 
help  your  httle  countryman  forward,  if  he 
deserve  it ! 


The  Swineherds. 
Before  a  cottage,  plastered   of  mud  and 
straw,  sat  an  old  swineherd,  a  real  Hungarian, 
and  consequently  a  nobleman.*     Very  ofteii 

*  The  number  of  indigent  nobles  in  Hungary  is  very 
great,  and  they  live  Uke  peasants,  in  the  most  miserable 
huts. 


THE    SWINEHERDS.  139 

had  he  laid  his  hand  upon  his  heart,  and 
said  this  to  himself.  The  sun  burnt  hotly, 
and  therefore  he  had  turned  the  woolly  side 
of  his  sheepskin  outwards ;  his  silver  white 
hair  hung  around  his  characteristic  brown 
countenance.  He  had  got  a  new  piece  of 
hnen,  a  shirt,  and  he  was  now  preparing  it  for 
wear,  according  to  his  own  fashion,  which 
was  this :  he  rubbed  the  fat  of  a  piece  of 
bacon  into  it ;  by  this  means  it  would  keep 
clean  so  much  the  longer,  and  he  could  turn 
it  first  on  one  side  and  then  on  the  other. 

His  grandson,  a  healthy-looking  lad,  whose 
long.black  hair  was  smoothed  with  the  same 
kind  of  pomatum  which  the  old  man  used  to 
his  shirt,  stood  just  by,  leaning  on  a  staff.  A 
long  leathern  bag  hung  on  his  shoulder.  He 
also  was  a  swineherd,  and  this  very  evening 
was  going  on  board  a  vessel,  which,  towed 
by  the  steamboat  Eros,  was  taking  a  freight 
of  pigs  to  the  imperial  city  of  Vienna. 

"  You  will  be  there  in  five  days,"  said  the 
old  man.  "  When  I  was  a  young  fellow,  like 
you,  it  used  to  take  six  weeks  for  the  journey. 
Step  by  step  we  went  on  through  marshy 
roads,  through  forests,  and  over  rocks.     The 


140  THE    SWINEHERDS. 


pigs,  which  at  the  beginning  of  the  journey 

were  so  fat  that  many  of  them  died  by  the 

way,  became  thin  and  wretched    before  we 

came  to  our   destination.      Now,  the  world 

strides  onward  :  everything  gets  easier  !" 

^    "  We  can  smoke  our  pipes,"  said  the  youth ; 

lie   m    the  sun  in  our   warm   skin-cloaks. 

Meadows  and  cities  glide  swiftly  past  us  •  the 

pigs  fly  along  with  us,  and  get  fat   on    the 

journey.     That  is  the  life  !'• 

"Everybody  has  his  own  notions,"  renhed 
the  old   man;    "I  had    mine.      There  is  a 
pleasure   even  in   difficulty.     When    in    the 
forest  I  saw  the  gypsies  roasting  and  boiling 
I  had  to  look  sharply  about  me,  to  mind  that 
my  best  pigs  did  not  get  into  their  clutches 
Many  a  bit  of  fun  have  I  had.     I  had  to  use 
my  wits.     I  was  put  to  my  shifts ;  and  some- 
times had  to  use  my  fists  as  well.     On  the 
plain  between  the  rocks,  where,  you  know 
the  wmds  are  shut  in,  I  drove  my  herd  •   I 
drove  It  across  the  field  where  the  invisible 
cast  e    of  the    winds   is   built.      There   was 
neither  house  nor  roof  to  be  seen:  the  castle 
of  the  wmds  can    only  be  felt.     I  drove  the 
herd  through  the  invisible  chambers  and  halls 


THE    SWINEHERDS.  141 

I  could  see  it  very  well ;  the  wall  was  storm, 
the  door  whklwind !  Such  a  thing  as  that 
is  worth  all  the  trouble ;  it  gives  a  man 
something  to  talk  about.  What  do  you  come 
to  know,  you  who  lie  idling  in  the  sunshine, 
in  the  great  floating  pig-sty  ?" 

And  all  the  time  the  old  man  was  talking, 
he  kept  rubbing  the  bacon-fat  into  his  new 
shirt. 

"  Go  with  me  to  the  Danube,"  returned 
the  youth ;  "  there  you  will  see  a  dance  of 
pigs,  all  so  fat,  till  they  are  ready  to  burst. 
They  do  not  like  to  go  into  the  vessel ;  we 
drive  them  with  sticks ;  they  push  one 
against  another ;  set  themselves  across ; 
stretch  themselves  out  on  the  earth,  run 
hither  and  thither,  however  fat  and  heavy 
they  may  be.  That  is  a  dance  !  You  would 
shake  your  sides  with  laughing  !  What  a 
squealing  there  is !  All  the  musicians  in 
Hungary  could  not  make  such  a  squealing 
as  that  out  of  all  their  bagpipes,  let  them 
blow  as  hard  as  they  would !  How  beauti- 
fully bright  you  have  made  your  shirt  look  • 
you  can't  improve  it.  Go  with  me — now  do 
— to  the  Danube !     I'll  give  you  something 


142  THE    SWINEHERDS. 

to  drink,  grandfather  !  In  four  days  I  shall 
be  in  the  capital :  what  pomp  and  splendor 
I  shall  see  there  !  I  will  buy  you  a  pair  of 
red  trowsers  and  plaited  spurs  !" 

The  old  swineherd  proudly  lifted  his  head  ; 
regarded  the  youthful  Magyar  with  flashing 
eyes  ;  hung  his  shirt  on  the  hook  in  the  wall 
of  the  low  mud  cottage,  in  which  there  was 
nothing  but  a  table,  a  bench,  and  a  wooden 
chest ;  he  nodded  with  his  head,  and  mutter- 
ed to  himself.  "  Nemes -ember  van,  nemes- 
ember  én  és  vagyok."  (He  is  a  nobleman ; 
I  am  also  a  nobleman  !) 


PEGASUS  AND  THE  POST-HORSES. 
A  Dialogue. 

People  have  written  descriptions  of  jour- 
neys in  many  ways ;  yet,  I  think,  never  in 
dialogue. 

On  the  24th  of  February,  1841,  a  travel- 
ing carriage  with  a  deal  of  luggage  drove 
out  of  Rome,  through  the  Porta  iSan  Gio- 
vanni, drawn  by  two  common  post-horses ; 
to  these  was,  however,  harnessed  a  third, 
which  ran  before  the  others,  a  creature  full  of 
fire  and  mettle — it  was  Pegasus  himself;  and 
there  was  nothing  extraordinary  in  his  having 
allowed  himself  to  be  thus  harnessed,  because 
inside  the  carriage  there  sate  two  poets  and 
also  a  singer  of  great  intellect,  full  of  satisfac- 
tion and  youthful  enjoyment,  for  he  was  just 
come  out  of  a  monastery,  and  was  on  his  way 
143 


144      PEGASUS    AND    THE    POST-HORSES. 

to  Naples  to  study  thorough-bass.  In  Albano 
he  had  exchanged  the  dress  of  the  monk  for 
a  regular  handsomely  cut  suit  of  black,  and 
he  might  have  been  taken  for  a  poet.  Be- 
sides these  three,  there  was  a  lady,  who  was 
an  enthusiast  for  poets  and  poetry,  but  could 
not  sit  with  her  back  to  the  horses.  It  was, 
as  anybody  may  see,  a  very  respectable  party 
for  Pegasus  to  draw.  They  took  the  road  to 
Naples :  we  will  now  listen  to  the  dialogue. 


First  Day's  Journey. 

Pegasus. — The  road  to  Albano  runs  along 
classic  ground ;  by  the  side  of  aqueducts, 
miles  long,  which  are  decorated  like  the  ves- 
tibule of  a  castle,  and  by  graves  overgrown  by 
brushwood.  A  capuchin  monk,  with  his 
begging-sack  on  his  back,  is  the  only  person 
whom  we  have  yet  met.  Now  we  are  ap- 
proachmg  the  tomb  of  Ascanius.  It  towers 
upward  with  a  gigantic  colossus  of  masonry, 
overgrown  with  grass  and  bushes.  Sing  of 
all  this,  you  poets  inside  there !  sing  of  the 
Roman  Campagna ! 

The   Post-horses. — Take   care,   and  pull 


PEGASUS    AND    THE    POST-HORSES.     145 

your  share,  you  fellow  !  What  is  the  mean- 
ing of  all  those  leaps  ?  Now  we  are  going  up 
hill.  In  Albano  we  shall  stop  two  whole 
hours :  they  have  good  oats  there,  and  a 
roomy  stable.  Ah !  we  have  a  long  way  to 
go  before  we  can  rest  to-night. 

Pegasus. — Now  we  are  in  Albano.  There 
is  a  house  which  we  shall  pass  close  by,  in 
the  street;  it  is  low,  only  two  stories  high, 
and  very  small.  The  door  opens  at  this  mo- 
ment, a  man  in  a  hunter's  dress  comes  forth ; 
he  has  pale  cheeks  and  intensely  black  eyes ; 
it  is  Don  Miguel,  the  ex-king  of  Portugal. 
Anybody  could  make  a  poem  about  that. 
Listen,  you  two  poets  there  in  the  carriage ! 
But  no,  they  don't  hear !  One  of  them  is 
making  himself  agreeable  to  the  lady,  and 
the  other  is  busying  his  thoughts  about  a 
tragedy 

The  Post-horses. — Now  we  have  been  fed ; 
let  us  get  ready  to  set  out.  It  is  a  long  stage 
up-hill  and  down.  Don't  stop  looking  at  that 
stone,  it  is  the  grave  of  the  Horatii — but  it  is 
an  old  story.     Now,  go  along  ! 

Pegasus. — What  splendid  trees  !  What 
luxuriant  evergreens !     The  road   lies  deep 


146     PEGASUS    AND    THE    POST-HORSES. 

between  the  rocks ;  the  water  comes  splash- 
ing down,  and  high  up  above  on  the  moun- 
tains, between  the  tops  of  the  trees,  stands 
the  magnificent  dome  of  the  church,  as  if  in 
heaven.  The  bells  sound.  There  stands  a 
cross  by  the  road-side  ;  handsome  girls  are 
walking  along,  they  bend  before  the  cross  and 
repeat  their  prayers  on  their  rosary.  We  are 
approaching  Genzano.  The  two  poets  alight 
from  the  carriage  ;  they  are  going  to  see  the 
Nemi  lake,  which  was  once  the  crater  of  a 
volcano.  Yes,  that  is  a  much  older  story 
even  than  the  Horatii.  Let  us  canter  whilst 
the  poets  get  into  an  enthusiasm !  They  can 
catch  us  in  Velletri.     Let  us  have  a  gallop. 

The  Post-horses. — What  is  come  to  the 
first  horse  ?  he  is  like  a  mad  thing  !  He  can 
neither  stand  nor  go !  And  yet  one  would 
think  he  was  old  enough  to  have  learned 
both. 

Pegasus. — Deep  below  us  lie  the  green 
marshes  overgrown  with  grass,  and  the  rocky 
island  of  Circe  in  the  sea.  We  are  now  in 
Cisterna,  the  little  city  where  the  Apostle 
Paul  was  met  by  his  friends  at  Rome,  when 
he  was  on  his  way  to  that  city.     Sing  about 


PEGASUS    AND    THE    POST-HORSES.     147 

it,  you  poets  !  The  evening  is  beautiful ;  the 
stars  twinkle.  There  is  a  girl  lovely  enough 
for  sculpture,  in  the  public-house  at  Cisterna ; 
look  at  her,  you  poets  !  And  sing  about  the 
fire-lily  of  the  marshes  ! 

Second  Day's  Journey. 

The  Post-horses. — Now  do  go  ti  little  cau- 
tiously !  not  galloping  in  that  way  !  There 
is  a  carriage  driving  before  us,  which  we  are 
not  to  pass  on  the  road.  Did  not  you  your- 
self hear  that  there  are  German  ladies  in  that 
carriage,  who  have  no  gentlemen  with  them, 
and  they  have,  therefore,  besought  us  that 
they  may  travel  in  company  with  us  because 
they  are  afraid  of  banditti !  It  is  not  safe 
here !  A  year  and  a  day  ago  we  heard  the 
balls  hissing  past  us  at  this  spot. 

Pegasus. — The  rain  falls  in  torrents ! 
Everything  around  us  stands  in  water.  The 
huts  of  reeds  seem  as  if  they  were  about  to 
swim  away  from  the  green  inundated  island. 
Let  us  tear  away  !  The  road  is  even.  There 
lies  a  splendid  monastery,  but  the  monks  are 
all  gone ;  the  fogs  of  the  marshes  have  driven 


148     PEGASUS    AND    THE    POST-HORSES. 

them ;  the  walls  and  marble  pillars  of  the 
monastery  are  covered  with  green  mould ; 
the  grass  grows  between  the  stones  of  the 
pavement ;  the  bats  fly  round  about  the  cu- 
pola. We  dash  through  the  open  cloister 
gates,  right  into  the  church,  and  there  pull 
up  !  You  should  see  how  the  lady  we  are 
drawing  is  hoii'ifled  into  a  marble  statue ! 
You  should  hear  our  chapel-master  singing 
here !  his  voice  is  beautiful ;  he  sings  hymns 
on  account  of  his  preservation,  and  the  two 
poets  will  tell  the  whole  world  of  their  life- 
emperilled  adventures  in  the  Pontine  Marshes. 

The  Post-horses. — Take  care  you  don't 
get  a  taste  of  the  lash  !  Do  keep  the  middle 
of  the  road !  We  shall  soon  be  in  Terracina, 
where  we  shall  rest ;  and  on  the  frontiers  we 
shall  rest ;  and  at  the  Custom-house  we  shall 
rest.  That  is  the  best  thing  in  the  whole 
journey. 

Pegasus. — The  sunlight  falls  on  the  yel- 
low-red clifl^s ;  the  marshes  lie  behind  us. 
Three  tall  palm  trees  stand  close  by  the  road  ; 
we  are  in  Terracina.  What  is  become  of 
our  company  ?  One  of  them  ascends  the 
rocks  between  tall  cactuses  ;  on  each  side  are 


PEGASUi3    AND   THE    POST-HORSES.     149 

gardens  full  of  lemon  and  orange  trees,  every 
branch  of  which  bends  under  the  load  of  yel-- 
low,  glittering  fruit.  He  climbs  the  ruins  of 
Theodoricksburg ;  from  there  he  looks  over 
the  marshes  to  the  north,  and  his  heart  sings — 

My  wife, 
My  lovely,  fragrant  rose ! 
And  thou,  my  child,  my  joy,  my  life, 
My  all  that  makes  earth  dear  to  me, 
— Thou  bud  upon  my  rose ! 

But  the  other  poet  sits  down  below  by  the 
sea ;  yes,  out  there,  by  the  sea,  upon  a  huge 
mass  of  rock.  He  wets  his  lips  with  salt 
water,  and  says  with  exultation,  "Thou 
heaving,  wind-lulled  sea  !  Thou  embracest, 
like  me,  the  whole  world  ;  she  is  thy  bride ; 
she  is  thy  nurse.  Thou  singest  of  her  in  the 
storm !  In  thy  repose  thou  dreamest  of 
heaven  !     Thou  bright,  transparent  sea  !" 

The  Post-horses. — Of  a  truth  those  were 
capital  oats  we  had  in  Terracina.  It  was  a 
good  road  there  also  ;  and  we  stopped  such  a 
charming  long  time  in  Fondi.  See !  now 
again  it  goes  up-hill.  Of  what  good  are  the 
hills  ?  First  up  and  then  down  again  !  A 
fine  pleasure  that  is. 


150     PEGASUS    AND    THE    POST-HORSES. 

Pegasus. — The  weeping  willows  tremble 
in  the  wind.  How  like  a  snake  the  road 
winds  along  the  hill-side,  by  ruinous  mounds 
and  olive  woods,  all  illumined  by  the  red 
evening-  sunlight.  A  picturesque  little  town 
lies  below  us,  and  the  peasants,  full  of  life, 
are  thronging  the  road.  There  is  poetry  in 
these  hills !  Come  hither,  thou  who  canst 
sing  of  it !  Place  thyself  upon  my  back  ! 
My  poets  in  the  carriage  there  sit  and  are 
quite  lazy.  We  career  onward  in  this  still 
Starlight  night,  past  cyclopean  masses  of 
brickwork,  where  ivy  hangs  like  a  garment 
over  caves  where  lurks  a  bandit — onwards, 
past  the  confused  mass  of  groves  where  Ci- 
cero fell  by  the  dagger  of  an  assassin.  Be- 
tween hedges  of  laurel  and  glittering  lemon 
trees  we  approach  his  villa  :  to-night  we  shall 
dream  in  Mola  di  Gaeta. 

The  Post-horses.— That  has  been  a  cursed 
bit  of  a  road  !  How  we  will  eat,  how  we  will 
drink,  if  the  oats  are  but  good  !  We  will 
hope  they  may  have  fresh  water  there,  and 
that  we  may  each  find  an  empty  stall ! 


pegasus  and  the  post-horses.    151 

Third  Day's  Journey. 

Pegasus. — Beneath  the  foHage  roof  of  the 
orange  trees  sat  the  beautiful  lady,  and  one 
of  the  poets  read  aloud  to  her  Italian  poetry  ; 
glorious,  melodious  poetry !  The  chapel- 
master  leaned  against  the  tall  lemon  tree, 
and  listened  and  looked  at  the  same  time  be- 
tween the  tall  cypresses  out  upon  the  sea, 
where  the  sunshine  caught  the  white  sails  of 
the  ships.  The  other  poet  ran  about  in  the 
fields,  gathered  red  anemones,  wove  garlands, 
plucked  first  one  and  then  another  glowing 
orange ;  and  they  leaped,  like  golden  apples 
into  the  clear  air.  There  was  holiday  in  his 
heart :  there  was  song  upon  his  lips  !  He 
felt,  "  I  am  once  more  in  Italy  !" 

The  horses  stood  in  the  stable  each  with 
his  head  in  the  manger  ;  th^  also  were  well 
off.  But  where  I  stood,  I,  Pegasus,  there  was 
a  door  in  the  wall,  and  the  door  was  open. 
I  stretched  out  my  head,  and  saw  above  the 
tops  of  the  lemon  trees  and  the  dark  cypress- 
es, the  white  town  upon  the  isthmus  in  the 
sea  ;  and  I  neighed  so,  that  I  fancy  the  poets 
recognized  my  voice. 


152     PEGASUS    AND    THE    POST-HORSES. 

The  Post-horses. — Now  we  are  going  on 
again  to  Sancta  Agatha  !  There  provender 
is  excellent.  Then  again  on  to  Capua, 
where  there  is  the  strong  fortress  and  the 
bad  water;  but  then  the  journey  is  soon  at 
an  end. 

Pegasus. — How  blue  the  mountains  are, 
though  !  How  blue  the  sea  is,  and  the  sky, 
also,  has  its  beaming  blue ;  it  is  three  shades 
of  one  color !  It  is  love  expressed  in  three 
languages.  See,  how  bright  the  stars  are  ! 
See,  how  the  city  before  us  is  spangled  with 
lights  !  It  is  Naples,  the  beautiful  city,  the 
gay  city,  Naples  !  Naples  ! 

And  Ave  were  in  Naples. 


THE  EMPEROR'S  NEW  CLOTHES. 

Many  years  ago,  there  was  an  Emperor, 
who  was  so  excessively  fond  of  new  clothes, 
that  he  spent  all  his  money  in  dress.  He  did 
not  trouble  himself  in  the  least  about  his  sol- 
diers ;  nor  did  he  care  to  go  either  to  the  the- 
atre or  the  chase,  except  for  the  opportunities 
then  afforded  him  for  displaying  his  new 
clothes.  He  had  a  different  suit  for  each  hour 
of  the  day  ;  and  as  of  any  other  king  or  em- 
peror, one  is  accustomed  to  say,  "  he  is  sittmg 
in  council,"  it  was  always  said  of  him,  "The 
Emperor  is  sitting  in  his  wardrobe." 

Time  passed  merrily  in  the  large  town 
which  was  his  capital;  strangers  arrived 
every  day  at  the  court.  One  day,  two  rogues, 
calling  themselves  weavers,  made  their  ap- 
pearance. They  gave  out  that  they  knew 
153 


154    THE  emperor's  new  clothes. 

how  to  weave  stuffs  of  the  most  beautiful 
coloi-s  and  elaborate  patterns,  the  clothes 
manufactured  from  which  should  have  the 
wonderful  property  of  remaining  invisible  to 
every  one  who  Avas  unfit  for  the  ofiice  he  held, 
or  who  was  extraordinarily  simple  in  char- 
acter. 

"  These  must,  indeed,  be  splendid  clothes  !" 
thought  the  Emperor.  "  Had  I  such  a  suit, 
I  might  at  once  find  out  what  men  in  my 
realms  are  unfit  for  their  oflSce,  and  also  be 
able  to  distinguish  the  wise  from  the  foolish  ! 
This  stuff  must  be  woven  for  me  immediate- 
ly." And  he  caused  large  sums  of  money  to 
be  given  to  both  the  weavers  in  order  that 
they  might  begin  their  work  directly. 

So  the  two  pretended  weavers  set  up  two 
looms,  and  affected  to  work  very  busilv 
though  in  reality  they  did  nothing  at  all'. 
They  asked  for  the  most  delicate  silk  and  the 
purest  gold  thread  ;  put  both  into  their  own 
knapsacks  ;  and  then  continued  their  pretend- 
ed work  at  the  empty  looms  until  late  at 
night. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  how  the  weavers 
are  getting  on  with  my  cloth,"  said  the  Em- 


THE    emperor's    NEW   CLOTHES.     155 

peror  to  himself,  after  some  little  time  had 
elapsed ;  he  was,  however,  rather  embarrass- 
ed, when  he  remembered  that  a  simpleton,  or 
one  unfit  for  his  office,  would  be  unable  to  see 
the  manufacture.  "  To  be  sure,"  he  thought, 
"  he  had  nothing  to  risk  in  his  own  person  ; 
but  yet,  he  would  prefer  sending  somebody 
else,  to  bring  him  intelligence  about  the 
weavers,  and  their  work,  before  he  troubled 
himself  in  the  affair."  All  the  people  through- 
out the  city  had  heard  of  the  wonderful 
property  the  cloth  was  to  possess  ;  and  all 
were  anxious  to  learn  how  wise,  or  how 
ignorant,  their  neighbors  might  prove  to  be. 

"I  will  send  my  faithful  old  minister,  to  the 
weavers,"  said  the  Emperor  at  last,  after  some 
deliberation,  "  he  will  be  best  able  to  see  how 
the  cloth  looks  ;  for  he  is  a  man  of  sense,  and 
no  one  can  be  more  suitable  for  his  of&ce  than 

he  is." 

So  the  faithful  old  minister  went  into  the 
hall,  where  the  knaves  were  working  with 
all  their  might,  at  their  empty  looms.  "What 
can  be  the  meaning  of  this  ?"  thought  the 
old  man,  opening  his  eyes  very  wide.  "  I 
cannot  discover  the  least  bit  of  thread  on  the 


156    THE  emperor's    new  clothes. 

looms."     However,    he   did  not   express   his 
thoughts  aloud. 

The  impostors  requested  him  very  court- 
eously to  be  so  good  as  to  come  nearer  their 
looms;  and  then  asked  him  whether  the 
design  pleased  him,  and  whether  the  colors 
were  not  very  beautiful ;  at  the  same  time 
pointing  to  the  empty  frames.  The  poor  old 
minister  looked  and  looked,  he  could  not  dis- 
cover anything  on  the  looms,  for  a  very  good 
reason,  viz:  there  was  nothing  there. 
"What!"  thought  he  again,  "is  it  possible 
that  I  am  a  simpleton  ?  I  have  never  thought 
so  myself;  and  no  one  must  know  it  now  if 
I  am  so.  Can  it  be,  that  I  am  unfit  for  my 
office  1  No,  that  must  not  be  said  either.  I 
will  never  confess  that  I  could  not  see  the 
stuff." 

"  Well,  Sir  Minister !"  said  one  of  the 
knaves,  still  pretending  to  work,  '•  you  do  not 
say  whether  the  stuff  pleases  you." 

"  Oh,  it  is  excellent !"  rephed  the  old  minis- 
ter, lookmg  at  the  loom  through  his  specta- 
cles. "  This  pattern,  and  the  colors — yes,  I 
will  tell  the  Emperor  without  delay,  how 
very  beautiful  I  think  them." 


THE    emperor's    new    CLOTHES.      157 

"We  shall  be  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  the 
impostors,  and  then  they  named  the  different 
colors  and  described  the  pattern  of  the  pre- 
tended stuff.  The  old  minister  listened  atten- 
tively to  their  words,  in  order  that  he  might 
repeat  them  to  the  Emperor ;  and  then  the 
Imaves  asked  for  more  silk  and  gold,  saying 
that  it  was  necessary  to  complete  what  they 
had  begun.  However,  they  put  all  that  was 
given  them  into  their  knapsacks ;  and  con- 
tinvied  to  work  with  as  much  apparent  dili- 
gence as  before  at  their  empty  looms. 

The  Emperor  now  sent  another  officer  of 
his  court  to  see  how  the  men  were  getting  on, 
and  to  ascertain  whether  the  cloth  would  soon 
be  ready.  It  was  just  the  same  with  this 
gentleman  as  with  the  minister  ;  he  surveyed 
the  looms  on  all  sides,  bvit  could  see  nothing 
at  all  but  the  empty  frames. 

"  Does  not  the  stuff  appear  as  beautiful  to 
you,  as  it  did  to  my  lord  the  minister  ?"  ask- 
ed the  impostors  of  the  Emperor's  second  am- 
bassador ;  at  the  same  time  making  the  same 
gestures  as  before,  and  talking  of  the  design 
and  colors  which  were  not  there. 

"  I  certainly  am  not  stupid  !"  thought  the 


158    THE  emperor's   new  clothes. 

messenger.  "  It  must  be,  that  I  am  not  fit 
for  my  good,  profitable  office  !  That  is  very- 
odd  ;  however,  no  one  shall  know  anything 
about  it."  And  accordingly  he  praised  the 
stuff  he  could  not  see,  and  declared  that  he 
was  delighted  with  both  colors  and  patterns. 
"  Indeed,  please  your  Imperial  Majesty,"  said 
he  to  his  sovereign  when  he  returned,  "  the 
cloth  which  the  weavers  are  preparing  is  ex- 
traordinarily magnificent." 

The  whole  city  was  talking  of  the  splendid 
cloth  which  the  Emperor  had  ordered  to  be 
woven  at  his  own  expense. 

And  now  the  Emperor  himself  wished  to 
see  the  costly  manufacture,  while  it  was  still 
in  the  loom.  Accompanied  by  a  select  num- 
ber of  officers  of  the  court,  among  whom  were 
the  two  honest  men  who  had  already  admired 
the  cloth,  he  went  to  the  crafty  impostors, 
who,  as  soon  as  they  were  aware  of  the  Em- 
peror's approach,  went  on  working  more  dili- 
gently than  ever  ;  although  they  still  did  not 
pass  a  single  thread  through  the  looms. 

"  Is  not  the  work  absolutely  magnificent  ?" 
said  the  two  officers  of  the  crown,  already 
mentioned.     "If  your  majesty  will  only  be 


THE    emperor's     NEW    CLOTHES.      159 

pleased  to  look  at  it !  what  a  splendid  design  ! 
what  glorious  colors  !"  and  at  the  same  time 
they  pointed  to  the  empty  frames  ;  for  they 
imagined  that  every  one  else  could  see  this 
exquisite  piece  of  workmanship. 

"'  How  is  this  ?"  said  the  Emperor  to  him- 
self, "  I  can  see  nothing !  this  is  indeed  a  ter- 
rible affair  !  Am  I  a  simpleton,  or  am  I  unfit 
to  be  an  Emperor  ?  that  would  be  the  worst 
thing  that  could  happen — Oh !  the  cloth  is 
charming,"  said  he,  aloud.  "  It  has  my  com- 
plete approbation."  And  he  smiled  most 
graciously,  and  looked  closely  at  the  empty 
looms  ;  for  on  no  account  would  he  say  that 
he  could  not  see  what  two  of  the  officers  of 
his  court  had  praised  so  much.  All  his  reti- 
nue now  strained  their  eyes,  hoping  to  dis- 
cover something  on  the  looms,  but  they  could 
see  no  more  than  the  others ;  nevertheless, 
they  all  exclaimed,  "  Oh  how  beautiful !"  and 
advised  his  majesty  to  have  some  new  clothes 
made  from  this  splendid  material,  for  the  ap- 
proaching procession.  "  Magnificent !  charm- 
ing !  excellent !"  resounded  on  all  sides  ;  and 
every  one  was  uncommonly  gay.     The  Em- 


160    THE  emperor's  new  clothes. 

peror  shared  in  the  general  satisfaction  ;  and 
presented  the  impostors  with  the  riband  of  an 
order  of  knighthood,  to  be  worn  in  their 
button-holes,  and  the  title  of  "Gentlemen 
Weavers." 

The  rogues  sat  up  the  whole  of  the  night 
before  the  day  on  which  the  procession  was  to 
take  place,  and  had  sixteen  lights  burning,  so 
that  every  one  might  see  how  anxious  they 
were  to  finish  the  Emperor's  new  suit.  They 
pretended  to  roll  the  cloth  off  the  looms  ;  cut 
the  air  with  their  scissors ;  and  sewed  with 
needles  without  any  thread  in  them.  "  See  !" 
cried  they,  at  last,  "  the  Emperor's  new 
clothes  are  ready  !" 

And  now  the  Emperor,  with  all  the  gran- 
dees of  his  court,  came  to  the  Aveavers  ;  and 
the  rogues  raised  their  arms,  as  if  in  the  act 
of  holding  something  up,  saying,  "Here  are 
your  Majesty's  trowsers!  here  is  the  scarf! 
here  is  the  mantle  !  The  whole  suit  is  as 
light  as  a  cobweb  ;  one  might  fancy  one  has 
nothing  at  all  on,  when  dressed  in  it ;  that, 
however,  is  the  great  virtue  of  this  delicate 
cloth." 


THE    emperor's    NEW    CLOTHES.      161 

"  Yes  indeed  !"  said  all  the  courtiers,  al- 
though not  one  of  them  could  see  anything 
of  this  exquisite  manufacture. 

"  If  your  Imperial  Majesty  will  be  graciously 
pleased  to  take  off  your  clothes,  we  will  fit 
on  the  new  suit,  in  front  of  the  looking  glass." 

TJie  Emperor  was  accordingly  undressed, 
and  the  rogues  pretended  to  array  him  in  his 
new  suit ;  the  Emperor  turning  round,  from 
side  to  side,  before  the  looking  glass. 

"How  splendid  his  majesty  looks  in  his 
new  clothes  !  and  how  well  they  fit !"  every 
one  cried  out.  "  What  a  design  !  what  colors  ! 
these  are  indeed  royal  robes  !" 

"  The  canopy  which  is  to  be  borne  over 
your  Majesty,  in  the  procession,  is  waiting," 
announced  the  chief  master  of  the  ceremo- 
nies. 

"  I  am  quite  ready,"  answered  the  Empe- 
ror. "  Do  my  new  clothes  fit  well  ?"  asked 
he,  turning  himself  round  again  before  the 
looking  glass,  in  order  that  he  might  appear 
to  be  examining  his  handsome  suit. 

The  lords  of  the  bed-chamber,  who  were  to 
carry  his  Majesty's  train  felt  about   on  the 
ground,  as  if  they  were  lifting  up  the  ends  of 
11 


162    THE  emperor's  new  clothes- 

the  mantle ;  and  pretended  to  be  carrying 
something ;  for  they  would  by  no  means  be- 
tray anything  like  simplicity,  or  unfitness 
for  their  office. 

So  now  the  Emperor  walked  under  his 
high  canopy  in  the  midst  of  the  procession, 
through  the  streets  of  his  capital;  and  all 
the  people  standing  by,  and  those  at  the  win- 
dows, cried  out,  "  Oh  !  how  beautiful  are  our 
Emperor's  new  clothes  !  what  a  magnificent 
train  there  is  to  the  mantle  ;  and  how  grace- 
fully the  scarf  hangs  !"  in  short,  no  one  would 
allow  that  he  could  not  see  these  much-ad- 
mired clothes  ;  because,  in  doing  so,  he  would 
have  declared  himself  either  a  simpleton  or 
unfit  for  his  office.  Certainly,  none  of  the 
Emperor's  various  suits,  had  ever  made  so 
great  an  impression,  as  these  invisible  ones. 

"  But  the  Emperor  has  nothing  at  all  on !" 
said  a  little  child.  "  Listen  to  the  voice  of 
innocence  !"  exclaimed  his  father  ;  and  what 
the  child  had  said  was  whispered  from  one  to 
another. 

"  But  he  has  nothing  at  all  on !"  at  last 
cried  out  all  the  people.  The  Emperor  was 
vexed,  for  he   knew    that  the  people   were 


THE    emperor's    NEW    CLOTHES.      163 

right ;  but  he  thought  the  procession  must 
go  on  now  !  And  the  lords  of  the  bed-cham- 
ber took  greater  pains  than  ever,  to  appear 
holding  up  a  train,  although,  in  reality,  there 
was  no  train  to  hold. 


THE  SWINEHERD. 

There  was  once  a  poor  Prince,  who  had 
a  kingdom ;  his  kingdom  was  very  small,  but 
still  quite  large  enough  to  marry  upon  ;  and 
he  wished  to  marry. 

It  was  certainly  rather  cool  of  him  to  say 
to  the  Emperor's  daughter,  Will  you  have 
me  7  But  so  he  did ;  for  his  name  was  re- 
nowned far  and  wide  ;  and  there  were  a  hun- 
dred princesses  who  would  have  answered, 
"Yes  !"  and  "  Thank  you  kindly."  We  shall 
see  what  this  princess  said. 

Listen  ! 

It  happened  that  where  the  Prince's  father 
lay  buried,  there  grew  a  rose  tree — a  most 
beautiful  rose  tree,  which  blossomed  only  once 
in  every  five  years,  and  even  then  bore  only 
one  flower,  but  that  was  a  rose  !  It  smelt  so 
164 


THE    SWINEHERD.  165 

sweet  that  all  cares  and  sorrows  were  forgotten 
by  him  who  inhaled  its  fragrance. 

And  furthermore,  the  Prince  had  a  night- 
ingale, who  could  sing  in  such  a  manner  that 
it  seemed  as  though  all  sweet  melodies  dwelt 
in  her  Httle  throat.  So  the  Princess  was  to 
have  the  rose,  and  the  nightingale  ;  and  they 
were  accordingly  put  into  large  silver  cask- 
ets, and  sent  to  ner. 

The  Emperor  had  them  brought  into  a 
large  hall,  where  the  Princess  was  playing  at 
"  Visiting,"  with  the  ladies  of  the  court ;  and 
when  she  saw  the  caskets  with  the  presents, 
she  clapped  her  hands  for  joy. 

"  Ah,  if  it  were  but  a  little  pussy-cat !"  said 
she ;  but  the  rose  tree,  with  its  beautiful  rose 
came  to  view. 

"  Oh,  how  prettily  it  is  made  ! "  said  all  the 
court  ladies. 

"  It  is  more  than  pretty,"  said  the  Emperor, 
"  it  is  charming  !" 

But  the  Princess  touched  it,  and  was  al- 
most ready  to  cry. 

"  Fie,  papa  !"  said  she,  "  it  is  not  made  at 
all,  it  is  natural !" 

"  Let  us  see  what  is  in  the  other  casket, 


166  THE    SWINEHERD. 

before  we  get  into  a  bad  humor,"  said  the 
Emperor.  So  the  nightingale  came  forth 
and  sang  so  dehghtfuUy  that  at  first  no  one 
could  say  anything  ill-humored  of  her. 

"  Superbe !  charmant .'"  exclaimed  the 
ladies  ;  for  they  all  used  to  chatter  French, 
each  one  worse  than  her  neighbor. 

"How  much  the  bird  reminds  me  of  the 
musical  box  that  belonged  to  our  blessed 
Empress,"  said  an  old  knight.  "  Oh  yes  ! 
these  are  the  same  tones,  the  same  execu- 
tion." 

"  Yes !  yes !"  said  the  Emperor,  and  he 
wept  like  a  child  at  the  remembrance. 

"  I  will  still  hope  that  it  is  not  a  real  bird," 
said  the  Princess. 

"  Yes,  it  is  a  real  bird,"  said  those  who  had 
brought  it.  "  Well  then  let  the  bird  fly,"  said 
the  Princess  ;  and  she  positively  refused  to 
see  the  Prince. 

However,  he  was  not  to  be  discouraged ; 
he  daubed  his  face  over  brown  and  black ; 
pulled  his  cap  over  his  ears,  and  knocked  at 
the  door. 

"  Good  day  to  my  lord,  the  Emperor  !"  said 
he.  "  Can  I  have  employment  at  the  palace  ?" 


THE    SWINEHERD. 


167 


"  Why,  yes,"  said  the  Emperor,  "  I  want 
some  one  to  take  care  of  the  pigs,  for  we  have 
a  great  many  of  them." 

So  the  Prince  was  appointed  "Imperial 
Swineherd."  He  had  a  dirty  Uttle  room  close 
by  the  pig-sty ;  and  there  he  sat  the  whole 
day,  and  worked.  By  the  evening  he  had 
made  a  pretty  Uttle  kitchen-pot.  Little  bells 
were  hung  all  round  it ;  and  when  the  pot 
was  boiling,  these  bells  tinkled  in  the  most 
charming  manner,  and  played  the  old  melody, 

"Ach!  dulieber  Augustin, 
Allest  ist  weg,  weg,  weg  !"* 

But  what  was  still  more  curious,  whoever 
held  his  finger  in  the  smoke  of  the  kitchen- 
pot,  immediately  smelt  all  the  dishes  that 
were  cooking  on  every  hearth  in  the  city — 
this,  you  see,  was  something  quite  different 
from  the  rose. 

Now  the  Princess  happened  to  walk  that 
way ;  and  when  she  heard  the  tune,  she 
stood  quite  still,  and  seemed  pleased ;  for 
she  could  play  "  Lieber  Augustine  ;"  it  was 

*  "  Ah  !  dear  Augustiue  ! 
All  is  gone,  gone,  gone  J" 


168  THE    SWINEHERD. 

the  only  piece  she  knew  ;  and  she  played  It 
with  one  fing^er. 

"  Why  there  is  my  piece,"  said  the  Prin- 
cess ;  "  that  swineherd  must  certainly  have 
been  well  educated !  g^o  in  and  ask  him  the 
price  of  the  instrument." 

So  one  of  the  court  ladies  must  run  in  ; 
however,  she  drew  on  wooden  slippers  first. 

"  What  will  you  take  for  the  kitchen-pot  ?" 
said  the  lady. 

"  I  will  have  ten  kisses  from  the  Princess," 
said  the  swineherd. 

"  Yes,  indeed  P  said  the  lady. 

"I  cannot  sell  it  for  less,"  rejoined  the 
swineherd. 

"  He  is  an  impudent  fellow  !"  said  the  Prin- 
cess, and  she  walked  on  ;  but  when  she  had 
gone  a  little  way,  the  bells  tinkled  so  prettily 

"Ach!  du  lieber  Augustin, 
Alles  ist  weg,  weg,  weg !" 

"  Stay,"  said  the  Princess.  "  Ask  him  if 
he  will  have  ten  kisses  from  the  ladies  of  my 
court." 

"  No,  thank  you  I"  said  the  swineherd, 
"  ten  kisses  from  the  Princess,  or  I  keep  the 
the  kitchen-pot  myself." 


THE    SWINEHERD.  169 

"  That  must  not  be,  either  !"  said  the  Prin- 
cess, "  but  do  you  all  stand  before  me  that  no 
one  may  see  us." 

And  the  court-ladies  placed  themselves  in 
front  of  her,  and  spread  out  their  dresses — 
the  swineherd  got  ten  kisses,  and  the  Princess 
— the  kitchen-pot. 

That  was  delightful !  the  pot  was  boiling 
the  whole  evening,  and  the  whole  of  the  fol- 
lowing day.  They  knew  perfectly  well  what 
was  cooking  at  every  fire  throughout  the  city, 
from  the  chamberlain's  to  the  cobbler's  ;  the 
court-ladies  danced  and  clapped  their  hands. 

"  We  know  who  has  soup,  and  who  has 
pancakes  for  dinner  to-day,  who  has  cutlets, 
and  who  has  eggs.     How  interesting  !" 

"  Yes,  but  keep  my  secret,  for  I  am  an  Em- 
peror's daughter." 

The  swineherd — that  is  to  say — the  Prince, 
for  no  one  knew  that  he  was  other  than  an 
ill-favored  swineherd,  let  not  a  day  pass  with- 
out working  at  something;  he  at  last  con- 
structed a  rattle,  which,  when  it  was  swung 
round,  played  all  the  waltzes  and  jig  tunes, 
which  have  ever  been  heard  since  the  crea- 
tion of  the  world. 


170  THE    SWINEHERD. 

"  All,  that  is  superbe  /"  said  the  Princess 
when  she  passed  by,  "  I  have  never  heard 
prettier  compositions  !  Go  in  and  ask  him 
the  price  of  the  instrvmient ;  but  mind,  he 
shall  have  no  more  kisses  !" 

"  He  will  have  a  hundred  kisses  from  the 
Princess  !"  said  the  lady  who  had  been  to  ask. 

"  I  think  he  is  not  in  his  right  senses !" 
said  the  Princess,  and  walked  on,  but  when 
she  had  gone  a  little  way,  she  stopped  again. 
'•'  One  must  encourage  art,"  said  she,  "  I  am 
the  Emperor's  daughter.  Tell  huu  he  shall, 
as  on  yesterday,  have  ten  kisses  from  me,  and 
may  take  the  rest  from  the  ladies  of  the 
court." 

'•  Oh  ! — but  we  should  not  like  that  at  all !" 
said  they.  "  What  are  you  muttering  ?"  asked 
the  Princess;  "if  I  can  kiss  him,  surely  you 
can.  Remember  that  you  owe  everything 
to  me."  So  the  ladies  were  obhged  to  go  to 
him  again. 

"  A  hundred  kisses  from  the  Princess  !"  said 
he,  '■  or  else  let  every  one  keep  his  own." 

"  Stand  round  !"  said  she  ;  and  all  the  la- 
dies stood  round  her  whilst  the  kissing  was 
going  on. 


THE    SWINEHERD.  171 

"  Wliat  can  be  the  reason  for  such  a  crowd 
close  by  the  pig-sty  ?"  said  the  Emperor,  who 
happened  just  then  to  step  out  on  the  balco- 
ny ;  he  rubbed  his  eyes,  and  put  on  his  spec- 
tacles. "They  are  the  ladies  of  the  court ;  I 
must  go  down  and  see  what  they  are  about !" 
So  he  pulled  up  his  shppers  at  the  heel,  for 
he  had  trodden  them  down. 

As  soon  as  he  had  got  into  the  court-yard, 
he  moved  very  softly,  and  the  ladies  were  so 
much  engrossed  with  counting  the  kisses, 
that  all  might  go  on  fairly,  that  they  did  not 
perceive  the  Emperor.  He  rose  on  his  tip- 
toes. 

"  What  is  all  this  ?"  said  he,  when  he  saw 
what  was  going  on,  and  he  boxed  the  Prin- 
cess's ears  with  his  slipper,  just  as  the  swine- 
herd was  taking  the  eighty-sixth  kiss. 

"  March  out !"  said  the  Emperor,  for  he 
was  very  angry;  and  both  Princess  and 
swineherd  were  thrust  out  of  the  city. 

The  Princess  now  stood  and  wept,  the 
swineherd  scolded,  and  the  rain  poured  down. 

"  Alas  !  unhappy  creature  that  I  am  !"  said 
the  Princess.      "If  I  had  but  married  the 


172  THE    SWINEHERD. 

handsome  young  Prince  !    ah  !  how  unfortu- 
nate I  am  !" 

And  the  swineherd  went  behind  a  tree, 
washed  the  black  and  brown  color  from  his 
face,  threw  off  his  dirty  clothes,  and  stepped 
forth  in  his  princely  robes ;  he  looked  so  no- 
ble that  the  Princess  could  not  help  bowing 
before  him. 

"I  am  come  to  despise  thee,"  said  he. 
"Thou  would'st  not  have  an  honorable 
Prince  !  thou  could'st  not  prize  the  rose  and 
the  nightingale,  but  thou  wast  ready  to  kiss 
the  swineherd  for  the  sake  of  a  trumpery 
plaything.     Thou  art  rightly  served." 

He  then  went  back  to  his  own  little  king-  - 
dom,  and  shut  the  door  of  his  palace  in  her 
face.     Now  she  mig-ht  well  sinsr 

"  Ach  !  du  lieber  Augustine, 
Alles  ist  weg,  weg,  weg!" 


THE  REAL  PRINCESS. 

There  was  once  a  Prince  who  wished  to 
marry  a  Princess ;  but  then  she  must  be  a 
real  Princess.  He  travelled  all  over  the  world 
in  hopes  of  finding  such  a  lady  ;  but  there 
was  always  something  wrong.  Princesses 
he  found  in  plenty ;  but  whether  they  were 
real  Princesses  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
decide,  for  now  one  thing,  now  another,  seem- 
ed to  him  not  quite  right  about  the  ladies. 
At  last  he  returned  to  his  palace  quite  cast 
down,  because  he  wished  so  much  to  have  a 
real  Princess  for  his  wife. 

One  evening  a  fearful  tempest  arose,  it 
thundered  and  lightened,  and  the  rain  poured 
down  from  the  sky  in  torrents:  besides,  it 
was  as  dark  as  pitch.  All  at  once  there  was 
heard  a  violent  knocking  at  the  door,  and  the 
173 


174  THE    REAL    PRINCESS. 

old  King,  the  Prince's  father,  went  out  him- 
self to  open  it. 

It  was  a  Princess  who  was  standing  outside 
the  door.  What  with  the  rain  and  the  wind, 
she  was  in  a  sad  condition  ;  the  water  trickled 
down  from  her  hair,  and  her  clothes  clung  to 
her  body.     She  said  she  was  a  real  Princess. 

"  Ah  !  we  shall  soon  see  that !"  thought 
the  old  Queen-mother  ;  however,  she  said  not 
a  word  of  what  she  was  going  to  do;  but 
went  quietly  into  the  bed-room,  took  all  the 
bed-clothes  off  the  bed,  and  put  three  little 
peas  on  the  bedstead.  She  then  laid  twenty 
mattrasses  one  upon  another  over  the  three 
peas,  and  put  twenty  feather  beds  over  the 
mattrasses. 

Upon  this  bed  the  Princess  was  to  pass  the 
night. 

The  next  moiTiing  she  was  asked  how  she 
had  slept.  "  Oh,  very  badly  indeed  !"  she  re- 
plied. "  I  have  scarcely  closed  my  eyes  the 
whole  night  through.  I  do  not  know  what 
was  in  my  bed,  but  I  had  something  hard 
under  me,  and  am  all  over  black  and  blue. 
It  has  hurt  me  so  much  !" 

Now  it  was  plain  that  the  lady  must  be  a 


THE    REAL    PRINCESS.  175 

real  Princess,  since  she  had  been  able  to  feel 
the  three  little  peas  through  the  twenty  mat- 
trasses  and  twenty  feather  beds.  None  but  a 
real  Princess  could  have  had  such  a  delicate 
sense  of  feeling. 

The  Prince  accordingly  made  her  his  wife ; 
being  now  convinced  that  he  had  found  a  real 
Princess.  The  three  peas  were  however  put 
into  the  cabinet  of  curiosities,  where  they  are 
still  to  be  seen,  provided  they  are  not  lost. 

Was  not  this  lady  a  real  delicacy. 


N 


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